Poetry

The beautiful pictures on the wall
were chosen by the curator.
They were hung with great consideration.
The effect was charming,
careful, unobtrusive, mwuh.
The curator ate lunch and brushed her skirt,
then touched a mole that bothered her.
She made a phone call in a listless voice.
(Benedict was a rat bastard.
Rumpled hair, half smile, acute, encompassing
man. But what a prick.)
Thirty-six years ago, the curator
slipped into this world, a golden soybean,
and her mother held her,
shining wet, all goddessy with blood.