L'Objet Petit

I am about to tell a lie whether you believe it or not. You tell lies with
velvet attached to your face, and I believe you. Besides, I have to—
something depends on it. And this time I want to do things right.
The last man allotted to me was devoured, what I mean is clothes
were destroyed. Not by me, of course, but by outlaws who mistook my
closet for a forest. Why do you ask? The ordeal proved beyond repair.
They had long tongues and the eyes on their wings looked like the
wet mouths of cigarette burns. Once, searching for an umbrella, I
startled them and they waved their gray mouthparts at me like pistols.
Let me explain: Together, they had six pairs of legs. The man left in
disgust; he could not forgive what he'd seen. Outside, the curious
stand in the rain without jackets. The closet is still occupied, by what,
I'm unsure.

Copyright © 2006 Diana Marie Delgado All rights reserved
from Lumina
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission