Click title to download PDF microchap
Cover collage by Jan Keough
using 'Flower Galaxy' by Lauri Burke
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Two gals in our eighties, drank cocoa and ate a box of elephant ears— flaky, sneaky pastries, that weigh nothing until they turn to cellulite on thighs.
Loaded on sugar, we wrote poetry on an antique Underwood with keys so stiff, we heaved with passion to make them give up the letters hiding in the ribbon.
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Red letter by black letter,
we typed the profane poetry
of forbidden words
shit FUCK asS
motherFUCKER cunt
bullocks TWAT
tITS Shlong
Years of suppression released,
apprehension demystified,
wickedness set loose on typing paper.
All for us. Propriety be damned.
The evening doesn’t translate well
without the tears of hilarity and snot.
You had to be there. You had to be us.
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When we told the nephews
(adult ones only), they stared
as if we spoke of a primordial subject
in a dead language.
One asked what an Underwood was.
Another could not understand
why we couldn’t print two copies
instead of using carbon paper.
Call that evening a thrill with chills
for tiny lives raised on table manners,
educated with intimidating vocabularies
that can politely shove a person against a wall
with sarcasm—and no raised voices.
You had to be there, I guess.
You had to be us.
Not one comprehended
the joy of typing censored words
in CAPITAL RED letters.
Call that evening a thrill with chills
for tiny lives raised on table manners,
educated with intimidating vocabularies
that can politely shove a person against a wall
with sarcasm—and no raised voices.
You had to be there, I guess.
You had to be us.
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Lourdes Tutaine-Garcia © 2021
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