Saltwater

The monkey was comfortable with his heels on. Betting on the skirt. Lost in discovering a penis amongst scribbles on her thighs. Deciding. In apt digressions. Which habit would be best to worship.

The monkey was lounging all right on its parable of Eden. Hands of god snapping in the wings of every bird. Jesus Christ starring in a reality show about children of absentee fathers.

She slowly shed her men. The way all women do. Wiping at the blood pouring from within her. The ignorance of evolution. Seeing the world as bigger than it is.

There's the monkey on his pedestal. Trying on dresses already worn. There's the world in little legions. Diseases too small to love. The certainty of her shortest skirt. In fairy tales of sober little girls scribble across concrete summers.

Comas not long enough to make me remember.

The taffy on the boardwalk as it would mix with the smell of grandma. Funnel cakes frying amongst her hair. Her heels as they'd jab the wood. In long strolls that took us nowhere.

All those tickets we collected for prizes we'd never win.