I scored 90 on a math test--the
apartment is bright, burning like a
bulb inside a box.

Mommy smiles
and Father kisses my cheek. He’s
now the deepness of the river
Niger, with none of the snapping
crocodiles in sight.

I scored 90 on
a math test, and my babysitter’s
sons test me again. The red boy’s
tongue is hot, and his black brother’s
tongue is cold.

They put me in between, like I was Traci
Lords’ younger sister. Try to rape me, as
concrete rocks lay scattered on the
parking lot, near Toyotas and
greenish Pintos.

I eat sloppy Joes
for dinner, the pulp of meat and
tomato sauce spread on store
bread. The brown crust is thin and

the bread itself is dented. It’s a silky
sponge. It looks like scraped flesh,
before you start to bleed.

Contributor: Behlor Santi

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