I Won't My Mama

Through the yellow hairs that move across my incisors like electrified dental floss, sounding like the crunch of starving-for-love white-girl food: celery stalks.

Fatman cries out like a kicked-in-the-belly bitch, and from the corner of my eye, and through the splay of fingers, I watched him palm-and-slide down the hall, out of my sight.

Maryann-the yes-man has her arm around my throat in a Steve Austin chokehold, and I’m kicking, she’s pulling, I’m flailing, she’s snatching my black self down a flight of twenty-two stairs.

legs on the molded plastic fold-out table, where the rest of the nobodies sat with inhaled faces, fallen in at the mouth from eating pink spaghetti doused with crumbled hamburger, and cold basque colored rolls, separating in four places, reminding me of old people dying in wheel chairs, and Saturday mornings in South Austin at Big Mama’s where yeast biscuits covered with a kitchen rag rose above the stove, while I sat between her legs getting my hair pressed with the catfish grease leftover from

Laughs, sniggers, “ooh’s” and “ah-shits,” ricochet off my fear, churning me into a state with more flailing and contorting than that of a body being slain in the Spirit.

A big fat man, arms thick as bologna rolls, and baseball-glove sized hands that held on and dug into my flesh; he squeezed and kneaded until it felt like I was going to pop right out of me, spilling out onto the floor.

Somebody winds my plaited hair around their hand and begins jerking me from behind and another somebody bum rushes their whole hand inside my mouth and yanking my head back and butting my nostrils till I can’t tell if my nose is inside my eye sockets.

legs on the molded plastic fold-out table, where the rest of the nobodies sat with inhaled faces, fallen in at the mouth from eating pink spaghetti doused with crumbled hamburger, and cold basque colored rolls, separating in four places, reminding me of old people dying in wheel chairs, and Saturday mornings in South Austin at Big Mama’s where yeast biscuits covered with a kitchen rag rose above the stove, while I sat between her legs getting my hair pressed with the catfish grease leftover from

Somebody should’ve told him He draws back fast-like Too late I’m a rabid dog who ain’t about to let go of him Hell no Not if my life depends on it I ain’t going in that room not today not again not ever Startled He kicks and bats at the air I drop deeper into him until his wet palm crushes down onto the side of my face fingers pry into my lips claw into gums my teeth my grip.

That dumb-ass song from MASH wafted from the bulging eye of a late model Zenith TV as he yanked my 100 pound body across the tiled floors, their splintered and chipped edges so sharp nobody’s big toe was safe, even with our shoes on, let alone in our nakedness.

Fatman screams, and dances around as far as his free leg will allow him to move, then topples to the ground.

Through the yellow hairs that move across my incisors like electrified dental floss, sounding like the crunch of starving-for-love white-girl food: celery stalks.

Somebody should’ve told him He draws back fast-like Too late I’m a rabid dog who ain’t about to let go of him Hell no Not if my life depends on it I ain’t going in that room not today not again not ever Startled He kicks and bats at the air I drop deeper into him until his wet palm crushes down onto the side of my face fingers pry into my lips claw into gums my teeth my grip.

Somebody should’ve told him He draws back fast-like Too late I’m a rabid dog who ain’t about to let go of him Hell no Not if my life depends on it I ain’t going in that room not today not again not ever Startled He kicks and bats at the air I drop deeper into him until his wet palm crushes down onto the side of my face fingers pry into my lips claw into gums my teeth my grip.

Through the yellow hairs that move across my incisors like electrified dental floss, sounding like the crunch of starving-for-love white-girl food: celery stalks.

Through the yellow hairs that move across my incisors like electrified dental floss, sounding like the crunch of starving-for-love white-girl food: celery stalks.

A faint strip of light creeps underneath the door without a handle, the room without any windows.

I bite down until I taste blood, muscle and salted meat, and feel the bone in his shin gag me sideways.

legs on the molded plastic fold-out table, where the rest of the nobodies sat with inhaled faces, fallen in at the mouth from eating pink spaghetti doused with crumbled hamburger, and cold basque colored rolls, separating in four places, reminding me of old people dying in wheel chairs, and Saturday mornings in South Austin at Big Mama’s where yeast biscuits covered with a kitchen rag rose above the stove, while I sat between her legs getting my hair pressed with the catfish grease leftover from

I bawl, and yell and fight and tear at him, the floor, walls and plates that’d crashed to the floor, until I’m so slippery Fatman releases my leg long enough to lift that silver gym-teacher whistle to his lips and blow sissyness and spit.

I crawl towards the little slit, lean into it.

I bawl, and yell and fight and tear at him, the floor, walls and plates that’d crashed to the floor, until I’m so slippery Fatman releases my leg long enough to lift that silver gym-teacher whistle to his lips and blow sissyness and spit.

I flip around, lift up, and sink my teeth dead on into the middle of his leg.

I bawl, and yell and fight and tear at him, the floor, walls and plates that’d crashed to the floor, until I’m so slippery Fatman releases my leg long enough to lift that silver gym-teacher whistle to his lips and blow sissyness and spit.

legs on the molded plastic fold-out table, where the rest of the nobodies sat with inhaled faces, fallen in at the mouth from eating pink spaghetti doused with crumbled hamburger, and cold basque colored rolls, separating in four places, reminding me of old people dying in wheel chairs, and Saturday mornings in South Austin at Big Mama’s where yeast biscuits covered with a kitchen rag rose above the stove, while I sat between her legs getting my hair pressed with the catfish grease leftover from

Fatman cries out like a kicked-in-the-belly bitch, and from the corner of my eye, and through the splay of fingers, I watched him palm-and-slide down the hall, out of my sight.