Timothy Flemming Jr
Magdalene Suit

e know her as Mary: mascara, pumps, and alley
blues; tissues beside the thirty-eight in the blue purse;
cursed with premonitions of a black hearse leading back
to the church in which she first came to know sex and illusion.
dim lights and icy winds don’t seem to bother her. stars seem
more attainable than love. the moon reminds her of daddy:
his silence as engulfing as the air, and his warmth as aloof as
the heat that hides in the shelter of apartment B overlooking
the sordid scene, a scene reminiscent of a Van Gogh painting:
soft lights, confused winds, a cracked sidewalk, and a woman’s
obscurity. but these type of women hide wisdom in their bosoms
beneath the rubble of a pillaged trust and fallen concepts of
womanhood. their distinction lost like the ark of the covenant.
they’ve learned to use the body as a decoy to lure horny looters
and vandals away from their lonesomeness. and at the end of
each night, they unzip their skin, scrub the fingerprints of
strange men off with a hot rag, hang Mary up in the closet
for the night, count their blessings, then soak in a tub of
their innermost longings.


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