“Mon Port Au Princeprince
prints prints
in le Printemps en le printemps,”
she cooed,
thrusting out our son,
quarter-dollar baby.
Prince prince prints prints?You dream that up all by yourself?with that big brain of yours?
“You’re a bastard,” she said.
Always abuses me with English.
Why you love me, isn’t it?
“Maybe it’s your money.”
I nursed a Cassis Blanc.
She nursed the boy.
What to do you do when wifey,
beloved object of/subject to obsessive,
worshipful, depraved desire
admits to being in it for the cash?
You picked the wrong writer forgoldie gold diggin, my goldenGoldie Lox.
“Don’t try salvaging yourself with words.
Mine were much more clever.
Non, non love. Buy something por moi.
Something that tick tocks.
Something by Piaget.
If you need to, put it on the card.
If you can’t, beg.
If begging doesn’t work, steal.
If you fail stealing…”
I whispered to my son,
“Bite her, boy!
Go ahead and
bite her hard!”
