WRONG EAR

-Rick Weaver

She broke every string along the way, leaving an easy trail for me to follow, like Kilduff’s kernels. I found her at the corner of The Corner, sharing malts with her moll. We looked one another over, cowing one another, not budging yet biting.

She broke every rule in the book at The Corner. I ferreted around for a highlighter, or some means of highlighting everything she did wrong, because I loved her style and wanted so bad to learn from her bad behavior.

I found her there in a body bag… that we shared on a ride here and there. We looked one another over, but we could not see nothing: it was dark in the sack. We gave the body bag the boy bag moniker; I think, as something to do with blindness, loss of sense; boy things.

Hematite streaked during diastole, almost blueberry, and ferric; fair warning or false alarm. Her moll leaned against my arm, and I felt the firmness of her moll’s bra as she pressed her breast(s) against my triceps.

I took Taylor’s ear off the rack to get a better listen - a visualization.

No dice.

I had taken the wrong ear off the rack. It was too late to undo the wrong. There would be no second chance. I baked a small peel off the lobe and served it to my lover.

In lurgy dialect, she scratched at the aluminum; dark iron, menstrual metals, the lost grain.