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Teresa Petro-Micchelli
Bob Dylan’s Lost Children In a rest
stop bathroom somewhere
in Kentucky I ran into
my stripper friend. I was
throwing blackened fetuses into the waste
bin and real plastic-like dolls too. You don’t
want to get caught, she said. So I went
into a stall—dumped those unborn
babies in and began flushing them— some got stuck
in the white oval mouth. When the
water turned those inky bundles to flesh
and their lips opened like fish, and when they
cried save me— I ran outside. I stood in
front of a tree with my friend, You should
come strip with me tonight, she said
dragging hard on a long cigarette. But what
about Robert? I asked. And then
I wondered about Robert if he was my
boyfriend, I’d never even heard of him. Oh just
come on. Forget him. She tugged my hand, And
for God’s sake throw those in the
dumpster in the back before the cops get you. I felt the
plastic bag make my palm sweat, held tight
to the bow I’d tied; I watched
as those nearly-made babies kicked
their milky dark feet inside, then I
walked back behind the bathroom and tossed
the bag over my shoulder without looking, flicked the
cigarette I’d been smoking, watched as dust
turned to fire at my feet. Teresa Petro-Micchelli
is published online with Nasty
Safari and No
Teeth. She has print publications in Backbone Mountain Review, Little Patuxant
Review, and
Review Revue. She is poetry editor for shady side review and
serves as an assistant editor for The
Fourth River. She currently resides in Pittsburgh
where she often thinks of installing a sun. |
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