wheels rolling forward
her mind rolls back
to a suburban foyer
the eyes of a skinny child
commit to memory the floor tile pattern
while bent over with pants dropped down,
having learned to practice
a strange silent stillness under the rubber hose.
she hears the musical pitch of the slicing of air
the slicing of air
the slicing of air
behind them a screen door opens
shuts
the voice of the father:
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”
turning up eyes to see
his hand grab the striking wrist
the girl runs upstairs and
in the absence of inquiries
upholds the dutiful silence
the raised highway
licks a bruise on this landscape
like green welts on the back of a thigh
Ilyse Kazar
