Carried Away By Noon

by Victor D. Sandiego

She hauls her face around
in a truck;
she answers the phone with her eyebrows:
up.

Only last night
the wine left her mouth to water – and today
she is covered in hives.

This woman doesn’t joke, keeps
her cups full of snake juice
and soda.

Carries a color picture
of her son.

He went to an infested place
gave away his flesh.

She left her day job to caress him
with flashes and film
and now:

she has but a snapping sound
of his neck to recall.

39 times
she puts her hands on the ground
before her lunch comes up.

Embraces a pole
where he was once tethered.

In the rain
her teeth chew the cold fat.

In the end
when dogs stop licking her thighs
she pushes a yelp out.

Comments

By lana Haley on Mar 10, 2014 18:18 (UTC)

Hi dear victor,
I read this most unusual poem 3 times, wondering what you had in mind when you wrote it. It is most interestingly written, but each time I read it I got goos-pimpled all over. “she” almost seems like not human being, like a creature. It really made me jump;)