Hygiene, Cerulean
X-rays from the dentist redden my knuckles, produce throat freckles.
At the light near our house, out the car window my wife lets her purse drop. I jump out, grab it, hold in my lap. The traffic light produces colors that my daughter identifies as cerulean, magenta, and periwinkle. She sighs, says stop on magenta, slow at periwinkle, floor it to cerulean.
She says something to her younger brother that I can’t quite make out; he nods, licks teeth, with an ink pen jots something down on the leather.
I pull into our driveway, let them out, reverse. I want the dentist to look at my knuckles and the freckles, the bulge near my ear, the tattoed frisbee choking my elbow. He will admit what the hygienists say when his mom calls them for directions. He will tell me what to do. He will tell me to listen.
David Erlewine generally follows instructions except when tired or he is fighting with wife. He edits flash for JMWW and has work appearing or forthcoming in Thieves Jargon, FRiGG, elimae, and other places. He can be found at: http://www.whizbyfiction.blogspot.com/
© 2009, Metazen. All rights reserved.
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soothing like a dream that drowns you, to burn you, to drown you, to soothe you, and then, to cast you in the starring role of Godzilla, drunk on rage, drunk on poetry, drunk on dance, drunk on fight-fight-fight-fight-fight.