Dripping Sweat As You Think of Little Queenie

     Little Queenie, with no control or faith, puts the index finger on her bruised lip, and has an aching heart beat. Queen of her castle, and winner of her own game; she sits on her throne of paper hearts and beautiful scents, sucking her thumb and throwing angry looks at all those happy folks. She laughs, and has a strong laugh, and she’s a great actress.

     Men’s gazes wander off as they think of her, and what she could do to them. They loosen their shirt collar, and try to concentrate. Everybody wants Little Queenie, but no one wants to love her. She knows, and sadly runs her fingers through her hair, capturing the attention of men who love her for that brisk moment, then turn their heads to other matters.

     She rarely shows signs of being capable of love, and the rare time she does is when her fingers gently place the needle on the spinning record. She loves that old Fleetwood Mac album, the one with a black and white cover. Her favorite song is Second Hand News, and she really wished someone would lay her down on the tall grass. The record skips and she thinks of rocks being tossed at wicka ceremonies. Time passes and the record keeps playing; Billie Holiday sings Lover Man. Little Queenie’s gaze is no longer stern, but vacant. She wraps a finger around her hair and dreams of a brown-eyed boy who’ll walk out of the window of her mind, and heal her bruised lip with his words.


Emanuela Curtale


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