The smell of new life and Bryce Courtney.
No chalk for the wicked: asthma, asmol;
No 'stomping.'

Molasses and peanut brittle.
To line his throat.
Like treasure in little piles
Next to The Remote.

No reception.
Everyone to their posts.
No disruptions unless it's an emergency...

(She sat on the ground of her bedroom with her lip bleeding:
A teller of lies, a holder of sticky tape,
Exactly what he had warned against.)

Never could tell whether the slow eyelids were deliberate,
Patronizing, her patron.
Pat, pat. Their affection shown
In awkward little movements like dolls.

And the mirror. The looking glass.
The object of ridicule.
"Yes, you still exist."
How could he stand to see such femininity, such frailty, such frivolty!

Soon her hands were tough and lacerated.
Silver hooks and bony mouths, gaping mechanically
As round and perfect as a pencil sharpener.

Let's go visit today.