Skunk Candy
What a Christian, what a girl
what a blonde-headed blue-eyed
daydream that’ll knock the pastor to his knees.
How sweet, and how supple,
does she say her prayers each night?
And how does she compare to me?
I bare teeth, I vomit at their feet,
and the milkmaid is my mother—
and how does she compare to me?
Is she the angel they’ve all been waiting for?
Skirts are for girls, girls are for skirts
with hips and dips and things—
A meat-market burning like brass,
hear ye, hear ye, it’s the debutant ball!
Are you a proud girl?
Do you suck skunk candy
for that youthful tooth-rot?
Do your insides not grossly fold
the same as mine?
The Prodigal Son
We star in a play as two sons:
the “good” and the “irresponsible,”
the “nothing” and the “more than anything.”
You go huffing to my father,
begging for coins with a
stupid drooling pout, and I jump up,
shouting justice for the share
to be split between us.
So I take my earnings
and head for the field—
where I work against crops,
sweating my body weight
and fusing with the dirt of the moor.
You go off and gallivant.
You get drunk and buy women,
run off and indulge and spend
all of your share— sooner or later
you’re broke and dirty, wishing
you were the muck under our feet,
and being the muck, without realizing it.
You snivel home with a sore nose
and dirty feet, drop to your knees,
and confess your faults to our father.
“I’m unworthy of being your son!
Please, make me your loyal servant.”
And instead of looking with his eyes
father looked with his heart.
His soft doe heart reached out
and lifted you off of your feet.
And suddenly I wasn’t a son anymore.
I was a daughter, and a granddaughter,
wearing boy clothes, with tangled hair
and bruises and paint stains and dog teeth.
With devil horns and slitted eyes.
With sharp knuckles and bitten lips.
Touch me, and I burn, and scream!
And I scream! And I scream!
I am not your angel!
And that good christian girl:
held up by my grandfather
on this ramshackle stage,
with an audience.
I watch him slip his dirty hands
to her waist, and smile softly,
and embrace her, and kiss
her shoulder tender and rigid,
and whisper into her hair,
“Welcome home.”
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142,019 Literary Works • 676,357 Reviews
This poem captures complex emotions in a way that feels both intensely personal and universally relatable. The vivid imagery and careful word choice drew me in immediately, creating a powerful atmosphere that lingered long after I finished reading.
I found the rhythm and flow of the lines beautifully crafted, enhancing the underlying message and emotional weight of the piece. It speaks to the shared human experience with remarkable clarity and grace.
Ultimately, this work left a lasting impression on me, beautifully illustrating how language can touch the soul and make us reflect on our own lives.
<3
Wow I am speechless. Gorgeous. Evocative. Stunning. Overall just sooooo well written
Thank you!
Hi Viv! I read this poem yesterday, and it left such an impact that I had to go away and think about it for a while before I left a review.
I read this poem as two separate poems that are also linked.
In Skunk Candy, the speaker is comparing themselves to a 'blonde-headed blue-eyed' Christian girl, who seems to check all the boxes of what a good Christian girl should look like and be. The speaker positions herself as almost feral: baring teeth, vomiting. The vomiting and tooth rot make the speaker feel abject, like she is something to be grossed out at in comparison to the blonde girl. I think that the refrain 'And how does she compare to me?' isn't asking for a direct comparison, but to judge both people by the same standards, the rotten standard. I think 'skunk candy' is something that looks appealing but rots you from the inside, like these standards.
The Prodigal Son reworks the biblical parable of the same name,
The speaker is the dutiful son, whilst the 'you' is the prodigal who left, indulged, and came home broken. The dutiful son morphs into a daughter. Daughters are often expected to do the work over any sons in the family, and are not rewarded or thanked, since in Christianity, it can often be the view that women should do house work. The speaker's identity is destabilised by the return and embrace of the prodigical son.
The last stanza, with the 'good Christian girl,' relating back to Skunk Candy, held up on a 'ramshackle stage' by a grandfather figure who touches her with 'dirty hands' makes the idea of being a good, christian girl, or even just womanhood itself, feel more like something staged and violated rather than pure, like that Skunk Candy; it looks sweet, but it rots you from inside.
Girlhood and womanhood here are not chosen, but assigned, staged, and consumed by a culture that had set out these standards and measures.
I hope I have understood this right! I have no suggestions/improvements, it's a very impactful poem <3
Thank you so much for the review! <3