Jul 27, 2010


Written by Adam Day

Read by Jennifer Jabaily Blackburn

The steam, a too-early, wet-haired winter
morning. They had shot off the bloodhound’s
paw. The passing Jesuit was angry. Whistled
through his horsey teeth slow music gathered
the loose folds of his gut with crossed
arms let go again. Dipped the frayed dangle
of hair flesh. A dimpled bowl of warm water. Looked
the shave nick, the naked shank. A tolerant
frown broke; his rotund body’s buttery
aura. The silver points of hair-ends. Then
gone. A memory in the choir loft, the petery
beast washed up to the back of the throat; the slaver
of consumptive spit; two shafts of coal
smoke. Now washed back down again with a mouth
of hot tea and cream, above the impatient
sticky-eyed hound. The two saltwhite shooters
beetling around the periphery, picking tobacco
from their teeth, effete, apostolic.