Homestead, FL
where your eye got plucked out in that awful rumble
outside Zoomie’s Bar
and you fought back like a banjee bitch
from hell
that ghetto girl plucked it like a grape from a vine
perfect
the pluck
not your eye
it was all yolk and glob
but it got you
money
from the state
so you holed up
in the Trade Winds Motel
the local pimp and his hookers
called you ‘Onesie’
when bored we would walk to Krome Avenue
to the pedophiles flop house
to get some coke
once we sat on the steps of The Sanctuary
and partied under God’s watch
you kept asking if it really was
a sanctuary
then the preacher arrived at 7am
we were still sitting there as the sun rose
he took one look at your missing eye
and said mother mercy child patch that thing up
we moved on to the Everglades Motel
and I took up with the first sad case who asked
if I wanted to be in show biz and I said
yesssss
but it wasn’t really (show biz)
tried to recruit you but you moved down
to Driftwood Trailer Park to shack up with a war vet
you said he suffered from Agent Orange poisoning
and heroin was his only saving grace
for such an awful affliction
I thought his orange hair was a direct reaction
(from the Agent Orange)
he got you an eye patch with a skull on it
and that was everything to you
he told us these three points sum up life:
adopted kids are always fucked up
teachers are always wacked and
never ever trust a redheaded dealer in a casino
my pimp was stabbed eleven times
by some Russian in search of his missing sister
now I hit up the Last Chance Saloon
every night around 8pm
for exactly that
they are doing construction on
Steve Mainster Memorial Drive
and the Preacher stands there
with a thank you Jesus sign
and there you stand
and watch in sad remorse
as they pluck the dead palm tree
right from its socket of earth
and I think I know exactly what you are feeling
Revelation 25
I stand
silk worms falling
from my hair
yellow panties pasted
to cream skin
I cover bare breasts
from squirrels peeping
in my window
I reach over God
to make a spot in heaven
in case I die before I
become Lady Godiva
in case I die before I try
to paste prettiness to my lips
a puff of red
to kiss my reflection
in the mirror with
I kneel and swat an angel
buzzing in my ear
whispering sweet surrenders
promising the ecstasy of St. Teresa
if I am good for a day or two
can’t be still yet
my soul is calling music
strangers resurrect themselves
around my face
I find I am reincarnated again
kissing purgatory
Despicable lives
siphon from me that golden bronze
liquid orb
of fire that sits
within my belly
I do not complain
I go on
(happy as a clam)
a trail of blood drips
from the holes throughout my body
waste not want not……
I wanted only to give you
something memorable / measurable
a gut
a prime cut
perhaps a heart steak
warriors have
entered that place
within me
to be saved / to be held
I have devoured them whole
but you
iron clad
metal to the core
spindle death monger
waited under a bush
like a troll
you are no warrior
and I curdle at the thought
that this yarn spin
of our lives is hopelessly
(or haplessly)
mingled together
Whoever said Absence Makes the Heart Grow Fonder is a Loser
Eight thousand miles away
the heart floats along oceans
through galaxies
it can be jaunted through / in / or over
to accommodate
when the heart feels that overwhelming
sick pulse that wretched feeling…. that indescribable thing
that wraps / entwines / eats / folds into
and through
and the madness
oh the madness what it does to the brain – what it doesn’t do
when we shift mountains / pack it up and move countries
complete operations
to come to find
you’re still there
and I’m here
and hunger is a bird
that is unable to land and the bird is nested
under my breast and there’s an eternal flight and flap
of desperate wings
an endless torment
©2020 Dona Dallas All rights reserved.
Donna Dallas studied Creative Writing and Philosophy at NYU’s Gallatin School and was lucky enough to study under William Packard, founder and editor of the New York Quarterly. Her work can recently be found or forthcoming in The Opiate, Anti Heroin Chic, Quail Bell Magazine, Pacific Review, Red Fez and Bewildering Stories among many other publications.
Editor’s Note:
Banjee or banjee boy is a term from the 1980s or earlier that describes a certain type of young Latino, Black, or multiracial man who has sex with men and who dresses in stereotypical masculine urban fashion for reasons which may include expressing masculinity, hiding his sexual orientation and attracting male partners.
Cajun Mutt Press 