Tony Nozero  © 2010 All Rights Reserved

To My Fathers Right

stands the body. Dad is left-handed. When he stretches his hand, the
body jumps. I used to stay in the body. We would ask Why can’t I have
the drumstick? Why? Why?
Then the questions stopped. We were nine and
eating peach ice cream. Condensed milk, eggs, sugar, vanilla, fresh
Clanton peaches. Butt numb from sitting on the churn as Daddy cranked,
fingers handle-thick. No seconds little fatty. We reached for the ladle.
The next thing I saw was the body on the floor. Its cheek red and dry.
 

***

 

The Body in Ninth Grade


Diet tricks—red and yellow missiles the body steals and carries to
school. The body blasts off before algebra and Mrs. Burgoyne, braced in
support hose. Glaring at thighs, she writes the body up for a dress code
violation. Three to four, the clock hand circles in the cafeteria. The
body does time. Afterwards, an offensive guard bangs it blue under the
gym bleachers. The short skirt bunches about the body’s waist.

 

 

Chella Courington
Copyright © 2010 

Chella Courington is a writer and teacher living in California. With a Ph.D. in British Literature and an MFA in Poetry, she teaches at Santa Barbara City College. Considering herself a hybrid writer, she bristles at categorization and loves language that moves out of time.


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