Janet Leigh
By stevo
Sun, 12 Sep 2004
- 710 reads
1 likes
Janet Leigh
After church I cartwheeled in the salty
dark and landed fist-first in the soft
earth of the rosebed. Upright, I looked,
and on my wrist beneath the drumstick of
my thumb there was a pool of black, a slick.
I showed my dad who deep in chat with a
pharmacist, a Mr White, said 'it's a cut, it
must have been a thorn or glass'. I thought it
might be oil or ink but in the limelight of the
chemist's I waxed sick and felt I might
pass out, swimming in pink, but he dressed
the nick and wiped away the red. I can still
see the stripe under years of skin, still hear
the bell and the key as we left and Mr White
locked up the shop; still taste the lollipop.
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