by Jess Emmons
Or death comes natural, unlike your tan of bronzing perfection and
Disdain for pure and creamy whiteness.
Who gave you the choice of oils and lotions and let you turn the light on
In your head and soul and body and mold?
Suffering gave you the right to be there
Here on the rail of Quakers in Lawnside.
Stumped by the entrance to Desiree's when it was once
Lucky's Ice Cream Emporium,
And halted by the stale taste of dusted sugarcanes
Stained black for your approval.
My mother never taught me such hate nor love
For prosper, nor disdain for the wicked souls
Licking salted wounds of treasure and sweet spots
On your chest of monkey-like sparse, course markings.
Hail to the chief and down with caulking, McCauley and Megan
Mulally, Grace for the scoops and hoops
And damned fine troops in the desert.
The storm has reached its end.