by Sean Flood
Black skin tastes better when
the wheat has already been
threshed; just a kiss. I watched her “paint
her face” from the field through the
window. Death bruises like a
tornado; the land is new. We had
only just arrived when the
tornado came and tore everything
up. Watch the eye sweep him up into
the vortex; he is your husband.
these documents, they are
your slave papers. But there
isn’t any slavery anymore.
Ditch behind the house; they
the ditch so deep they might as well
have made for China where the widows
grieve just as they do here: by hitching
up their bloomers and getting a field
hand to remind them what desperation
tastes like. He needn’t be black;
everyone tastes the same in the dark. Give
him a pair of rough hands, feeling heart,
tornado-scarred soles like lips.
Sean Flood is a writer and poet. His work has appeared in The Bombay Review and Black Ink. Favorite hobbies of his include playing old Nintendo games and daydreaming.