She wrote the most horrible poetry.
It lurched and jolted across the offended, blameless white page--
a disturbing circus of malapropisms and non sequiturs,
all set down in her charming, flowing, feminine hand.
"Do you like it?" she would ask,
offering from her perfect tapered fingers a page--
a floppy, oversized, extra-holy communion wafer.
Can the mind recoil even as the heart yearns?
Does the Pope shit in the woods?
Are bears Catholic?
Dumpsters and notebooks can be the same--
their compromised converts diving in,
bawling their pleasure,
making asses of themselves.
"I love it," I would tell her,
but I must be pardoned for this crime against literature.
The saints must intercede for me;
celestial judges must consider my intentions.
Reading, fighting down bile or guffaws,
I could, all the while, feel her vulnerable sweet heart beating,
just beneath the jade pendant that she wore--
the one with the antique silver setting.
What could I do?
What kind of monster, faced with her guileless, saucer-sized eyes,
as hopeful as a resurrection of doves,
could twist their tongue enough to tell her the truth?
"It's brilliant!" I enthused, no longer even looking at it,
setting it blindly aside,
admiring her pendant,
moving it blindly aside,
and pressing my lying lips to her blameless white skin
in nothing but forbearance and
for Real Toads mini-challenge, thunk up by my BFF Hedgewitch!
artwork: "Birds" by M C Escher.