Skunk Candy / Prodigal Son

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.”