Sunday, November 16, 2008

Pity by Erin Belieu


Once I took it in my mouth, I had to admit, pity tastes good, like the sandwiches

they make in French patisseries, the loaf smeared with force-fed organs, crust
that shreds the skin behind your teeth. So bless the tongue's willingness,

for it chooses like a wartime whore, and it's the picky who end up dead against the wall. And bless also the bouncers,

who all last summer grew kindly ashamed those nights I fell backward off their stools. When A. said, "People are generous with ugly things and you're the Goodwill drop box,"

I counted the turns I've taken on that swing—

the handouts I've offered to the fucked-up and broken. It's the playground rule,

everyone gets a ride: then you're the girl at the party trashing the patio furniture, or the man, later that night, pushing her down in the street.

—Erin Belieu, from Black Box


Anonymous said...

Your writings and poetry ae very enlightening.
Thank You.

Anonymous said...

I enjoyed you writings and the fact you share your personal struggle. Keep up the work!


Anonymous said...

email directly if you want