Fly Juice

Having completely destroyed

any false sense of correctness, he could

act naturally, a frog

when they were alone

So you hate me,

she said, crying.

Their love had started circular, shining,

but somewhere along the way a crack had begun

and it was more like a horseshoe, now.

Not that it mattered.

Dr. Adams, the man, had seen the crack

as she came in for the first time

and then for the gender.

"I'll name him

Elvis Presley" she said to a

body naked, not her husband, and

the empty response killed her inside.

Every morning the car's ignition

tore down a piece of her past adventures

until at last it had gone from chop suey

to limp noodles.

Could she be fine again?

She scrambled over rocks and stations in life and trees and concerts where the lead singer had better makeup than she so when the drugs started, she was not surprised.

But fitting feet into wooden slippers one day

she apologized to the child that had

grown like a twisted cantalope in her womb.

She missed the days of her

size six bikini.

The frog took her back and really,

who was she to complain over a little

pizza sauce in her hair when he

was angry.