I named my hoo ha Judith, just like Judith told me to.

She has curly hair, a little home, and an attitude, that tastes like whiskey.

And if you’re nice, Judith may give you a whiskey kiss.

Whiskey kisses don’t come easy. So you have to be careful.

Sometimes they’re sour but most other times, they burn bookish the way sinfulness should.

A whiskey kiss is not a wine kiss or a vodka kiss and for heavens! Nothing like a beer kiss!

(beer kisses are unacceptable. too much stout.)

Judith with fame has made many a good man and woman, cry in her search for happiness.

Enough about that. Let’s talk about me.

I first met Judith as an 11-year-old woman. We did not get along.

She made me toss and turn in bed, like a pig being prepared for slaughter.

And when she murdered, I felt a putative warmth oozing out my lungs.

A cancerous warmth, the way snuff snuggles into a snuffbox made of white dove.

Judith and I, we love each other now. Except when it snows.

Our whiskyness stood upright always, in case of a parlor visit.

But old girls we are. No more ashamed of being ashamed.

And old girls we will remain, passing down our alcoholism to our daughters.

Because I have no need for whiskey at 82.

 

Nazia Jannat

A man and his wife pluck a rose red shell
There is no time for sleep, no time for bread
They do not speak as I sound the death knell

Hysteria, the burning carousel
Hand by hand I hold, foot by foot I tread
A man and his wife pluck a rose red shell

But their fear upon fear, I cannot quell
I kiss them each on ear nose cheek and head
They do not speak as I sound the death knell

Children’s stories we will always retell
These hospital beds now swallowed in dread
A man and his wife pluck a rose red shell

Apocalypse, our breaking citadel
Such youths, why was I not taken instead?
They do not speak as I sound the death knell

Are we masochists? Are we infidel?
From whom to seek solace if not our dead?
A man and his wife pluck a rose red shell
They do not speak as I sound the death knell

 

Nazia Jannat