Brother
Skunk finally finishes shaving, manipulating the skin of his neck this way and
back to ease the razor’s passage across the flesh covering his adam’s apple,
his eyes wide with the stretched and attentive white petrification of a lab
rabbit.
There
is a tiny red bulb high on his cheek, a bitemark from the razor’s double-blade.
He stares on at himself, watching as this grows and drops down across his
thought now spoken
Skunk:
My father thought this too
and
both halves of his brain aswim with shades of discarnate infants.
He
is terrified of sobriety.
