Frying Ants
Summer meanton burning streets
sizzling ants
and then a
Hail Mary
whispered beneath breath,
while heathen vied
with Sundays
backs of thighs
marked by hard pews
and the smell of incense
all pervading.
But sin is so delicious,
like a cold, sizzling citron
drink that fizzed
and sent bubbles up your nose,
and only small children chortle,
from toes to belly
and up through the windpipe
and like it or not
such things are infectious,
like
snail trails from grubby noses
on a dry cleaned blazer
with a latin motto
and socks with
homemade elastic garters
that never worked
and a beret, bright red,
a curse to ginger classmates,
oh and plaits
of uniform length.
Mass early
before learning,
then frying ants
for dinner
Poetry by Elle
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Written on 2011-08-26 at 21:17
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