My Sister Friday, Mar 27 2009 

My Sister

My sister was famous for dying unborn.
With only blood to bury no memorial amassed,
no candles burned, but ashes cast
of a deep and dying love landed like fairylights
in newborn hair.

I can’t help but picture her
as a presence
of top-heavy perfection.
Reading Thoreau and Irving and always
using fresh herbs in the soup.
She would have an immortal immunity toward
Garbage bags left to multiply in the sun.
Never an enemy but always a foil,
she would resist
clandestine nights, carbohydrates,
the soporific advances of barmen and employers,
snooze buttons and shoe sales.

And always would my sister hold
the condition of her conception,
the primal symbolism of the past
clutched to her side like a phantom limb.
Skin wrapped in a flushed pink,
She crawled
out of the sticky soup and foam
of yesterday’s boiling heat.
A product of rum and
broken condoms.


Spam Wednesday, Mar 25 2009 

I can’t really take all of the credit for writing this.  It is a compilation of words and phrases I found in spam e-mails.


She looked fine.
Her heat,
the damaged crocus dress she wore,
Livid face and pendent eyelids,

He stood rigid as if they had found out he was a spy.
He looked over the edge of the balcony,
snatching up the cloak

The cloth a voice of mass warning

Latin again.
“I had to get into the open, away from the bugs.”

He smiled and blew a kiss to her
his lips asserted themselves unconsciously
as if they were loathsomely alive.

They hear snow garden music.
The chords harped slower, playing them like birdlime.

-By Laura Elise and the Nigerian Spammers