[Jackson, Mississippi, by William Eggleston, 1970]
Hearing Steve Tonight
Sunk in Sartre’s Saint Genet, lost boy from birth, never really knew my world as he calls it. Never never had a door opened to him. I’ve got one foot in his world, not much of a toe in my own. Still cut out. Family, a foreign term. O. Don’t moan. The wide open pain of it with me most every moment. Maybe not when I work. When I try like a washerwoman to write. Hair hunkered down in my face, sweat cling, force slugging through dirty water. Clothes come out grey. An old worn shirt, gotta wear it tomorrow. Dries crisp and crunched over an ironing board. Stiff. Slap it loose, then peel it open, pull it over my head, scratch it over sucked out breasts, hugging the belly of my slugged life. Stamp it ok with a look in the husbanded mirror–“every woman’s got to have a vanity. One for my woman.” Call him again. Claw at the guy who’s gone gay, sure to have left my pussy for the sating of his own. Home.