III.
Today the Louisiana
Purchase is a lost dog
fornicating in the streets. We
take it in & feed it fish
whiskers. It says it has a
private jet in the Cayman
Islands. We’ve seen the ad
on craigslist. The river
spreads lies faster than
Jackie Chan’s left foot. & the
dog smiles limply at your
breasts. A reminder our
home is the backbone of
some flat desire. The first
night you laid me down here,
we whispered secrets. We
fled our bodies. I pinned you
down by the water for
warmth. And my blood
vessels baked. And my
knees clapped a symphony
of clicks. Now the president
slinks from room to room like
a black cat. & we lie here like
furniture on top of infinite
amounts of furniture.
V.
Today we woke up with
the President between
us. He said it would be
fine. But you don’t look
fine. In the middle of the
night he bleached your
face with aspirin &
called it a joke. You
wonder what you did
wrong. Why I don’t love
you anymore. There’s
too much pain in this
stew. It’s pouring out of
my eye sockets & into
the river again. I miss
the days when we
stroked our flesh tender.
When we thought Jesus
watched us mate. How
you dove torso first into
a hurricane. You are the
scratch between my ribs
that never stops itching.
VI.
Today I wonder what love
feels like. I hear it’s like
warm bread dissolving in
the chest. We dip our feet
in enormous piles of
cotton. Lick at the sweaty
necks of bottles beside
the river. You say you
want children that roar
like red grit under your
nails. You make dough at
the thought. I want to
congregate inside of your
flat chest & read stories
about my life underwater.
Pick the loose hairs
staring out of your mouth
corners. My pillows are
full of conversation &
blurred time. We talk
about coastal erosion and
the war up north. Watch
my left hand as I pull
feelings out of my
existence. I need to tell
you that the Mississippi is
our future.
IX.
Today we played
cowboys and Indians as
foreplay. It wasn’t
politically correct. I read
the arrows across your
back. Pawed the blood
into a caricature of eating
& drinking in the library.
The way you look makes
my teeth hurt. Like a
million & half rotting
cavities in the same spot.
We use the dog for
firewood on Easter. He
knows how to brighten
the holidays. I can’t
remember a time before
us. I was never four &
half. I never learned how
to walk. Its days like this I
see black holes in the
river. I want to be an
unreliable narrator who
draws lines in the sand.
I’ll report the number of
times I spank you from
behind. I’ll finger the
holes in your stockings
until I erase my
fingerprints.
X.
Today we found a
garden hose that tasted
like your mother’s
prayers. I fasten it into a
necklace that shows off
your happy collarbones.
In the next room there is
a baby that makes you
quiver. You want to tell
me how you feel. I want
to fasten your hair into
braids that would make
the Indians proud, skin
an elk and wear the pelt
as an eye patch. Inside
we digest the floral
wallpaper & suck the
toenails off of their
pedestals. I look at your
hand the way the dog
ogles the sheep flanks
& lick the tobacco lining
inside of your cheek.
You look just like the
smiling Baptists that
milk me in the summer
time. Today is the day
the lord has made
Liz McGehee has a bachelor’s in Creative Writing from Louisiana State University where she concentrated in poetry. Liz also read fiction for the undergraduate journal, Delta, and helped to narrow down submissions. She am originally from New Orleans, which is one of the reasons why your magazine appeals to me. Liz loves when literary journals combine with art and photography.