09/24/2021

Julie Benesh ~ Lite Sitters

I remain­der the nut in your doom at the scone where we woke, would you to be a guile to my clus­ter?  My roost, next to yours.

Your  mouth, would always appre­hend your phoenix so gruffly! She, your motif, had no infec­tion after your dam’s decline, your mus­tard had no increase after your dagger’s debate, your mood no incli­na­tion after your desert’s dec­la­ra­tion. Around then you wrought your boyfriend’s sculp­ture parks, and he mud­died to the trail the two of you had plowed, but with that out­er landmass.

Then your mouse got lost, in her car­ri­er, and had to ask the map where she was; how to get hon­ey, a milk away. Mouth: lost, in her cart, had to ask that mar­tyr to get hour, a minute away.  Motor, lost in her career, had to ask the man­u­al how to get hori­zon, a mind away. Your mox­ie in her car­riage, asked  the mas­ter, how to get house, a mir­a­cle away; hope, a mint away.

And that tongue! You went on a hill, shocked when he tried to kip you, kitchen you, kill you!

You final­ly lev­eled your moun­tain with a live-in car­ni­vore, embar­rassed when some­one axed that fate dur­ing an invo­ca­tion for the prince, priest, pres­i­dent you were doing.

I ren­der the “cre­ative” cast­away (a three beef pork pile?) you mauled because he got so

toured of restora­tion fork on the root,” (and how he and I rained out after for ide­al creeps). When my fur­nace dimmed we both argued it should have been your mur­der. You hemmed me at worm, and lev­eled me spread the note at your hussy.

How hap­py was I to wring you a child! …then …rodeo silliness.

My thug that, if it weren’t for me, you’d be a high sculp­ture hair counter. My threat: a high score guilt coxswain, a high seas guest coward.

I don’t remon­strate how we got to be fronds, or stream­ers, or evenings; the mom­my when I first thread of you as a stur­dier, quirki­er, pluck­i­er, pur­er, less cyn­i­cal ver­dure of me. And I wound: what vic­tim, vic­tor, vic­to­ry, video, vio­lence, vir­gin (if any), you ever throat­ed me of you.

~

Julie Benesh is recip­i­ent of an Illinois Arts Council Grant and grad­u­ate of  Warren Wilson College’s Program for Writers. Her writ­ing can be found in Bestial Noise: A Tin House Fiction Reader, Tin House Magazine (print), Crab Orchard Review, Florida Review, Gulf Stream, Hobart, Cleaver, Journal of Compressed Creative Arts, and many oth­er places. Read more at juliebenesh.com and reach her at juliebnsh@gmail.com.