"Begins with O"
Every time she utters the word business.
A power rises to the edge of her tongue,
like an electric dance of energy,
a preacher’s sermon.
Our envious stomachs twitch.
We wait for Mama’s morning magic trick,
where she wets the little rings of hair
that fall over her ears with two globs of spit
and says: “now there’s the perfect look.”
We love the hour in front
of Estelle’s Old Time Motel
and the freedom to do what we want.
We know it’s time to go
when she rubs and presses
some burnt matches
over her almond eyes.
***
Three priests pass by as silent as arousal.
Gray geese flock above us, fly out of their V-formation—
their soft sounds
like sex
heard through a closed door.
We play ghosts-in-the-graveyard,
telling girl-secrets to Stella who spends summers
here in her mother’s motel. A boy
whose name begins with O
sits in an old Corvette drinking chocolate milk.
He eats Hostess cupcakes. He holds
candy cigarettes
like he own the place.
We want to trade,
to go into the rich A/C,
to take his treats, to poke
the proud rolls of his stomach
until he vomits dark brown.
My older sister approaches
through the heat.
She asks for the last cake.
The boy tells her no!,
no! she can’t come in, no!
she can’t have this cake!
No:
She leans into the open window’s crack.
I cannot hear her whisper.
The slip of the car door’s lock.
She slides inside.
© 2007 Matthew Silverman
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