Priscilla

The pictures of Jesus hung cockeyed on the walls.

She sinks herself into an easy chair.

You fool. What you come here for?

Thinkin’ you know something about my life.

The cavity between us wells, enough

to swallow the silence. Stumbled intentions.

Empty handed as ice cubes.

I talk myself backwards, out the door.

At the doorjamb I stop.

A spider catches my attention.

It lowers itself quickly away from the web.

Priscilla is prickly. She knows how to

get her way. She’ll know how to get by

without my help.

I take my eye off the spider to look

pointedly at her bruises on her arms.

Take your sympathy out the door, she bristles.

I murmur something inaudible.

I leave.

Copyright 2008 Maia Twedt