Joelene

shh

Let me light up a puff before I start

I don’t smoke

But I like to pretend I do once in a while

Just like I like to pretend a lot of things

I like to pretend I’m twenty. When I’m only...

I can’t tell you.

Cause then

I’d have to kill you.

And then everything I have to say...might be...

Jailbait

I’m kidding.

Well

Sort of.

Like smoking, I

Play pretend with a lot of things

Not with dolls and toys. Well...with toys. But that’s a secret between me and the four walls of my room.

And Eric.

If he wants in on it.

*winkie eyes*

I’ll treat you as my diary

You who’s seeing this

Don’t tell anyone.

You’re going to Jail too

Let’s drop our soaps together

And eat cold, clumpy oatmeal and underboiled eggs. Not sunny side up.

And oh, lord, it’s sunny today

And if it’s rainy where you are. That’s good too.

I’ll let you in on a secret.

And just hope it’s safe between me and you.

sitting in sinks & eric

Joelene🌸

I’m Joelene.

And here’s a few things you should know about me.

One: I love sugar pancakes and guys with pot bellies. And beard. And men that wears white wife-beaters with cigs hanging from the corner of their lips. And men who drives pick-up trucks.

And men with dogs.

It’s a plus if you have dogs.

And the shaggy ones? It’s a double plus.

I love sitting in sinks.

When mama is not home, that is.

If she ever sees me, she’d confiscate all those old mills & boobs I read on the daily.

They are called: Mills and Boon. But I say Boobs because they’re filled with

S.E.X. Satisfying. Enjoyment. Xrated.

Now, I can’t read it around Papa, because he’d burn them along with them ***** magazines I see him with on Sundays

When Mama goes to the community church with that fat pastor, wearing those big broad hats that hides her bony face

He’d read and read and read

And I think it’s those old-smelly books that caused my growing crush on

Eric Jacobs

I don’t mean the magazines. I mean the romance books.

Who’s Eric?

Patience. Patience.

So eager to go to prison, aren’t you?

Eric is perfect.

He reminds me of cherries.

The ones too far in the trees.

That you have climb the balk to get them.

And your skirt gets caught in an overgrown limb and boys with their tricycles below are getting flashes of your cotton panties.

But you don’t care because...

Boys are ugly when you’ve met someone like Eric.

So let’s backtrack...to the first day we spoke.

pretty up

So Papaw—I call him that sometimes because of my accent. It’s pronounced like Papa-ya. It means Daddy, Dad, Father, Pops. Sperm Donor.

He had plans to pick Uncle Eric up at the subway station.

He was coming by a train.

And ew, he’s not my uncle.

Mamaw just likes to call him that.

But I don’t.

Because how could he be when I’m this in love with him?

Before I finally met the man Papaw loves to drone about, I didn’t know he would be this...

Handsome.

But I wanted to go with them to pick him up, so when Mamaw called out: “Jo! Jo-Jo! Go get those rags off the line!”

She calls panties rags.

I raced down the stairs at the speed of light.

Floral pink nightie and barefeet.

I’d take all the prick from the grass-ants and squishy mud.

I kept on my best behavior. Washed all the egg grease and ketchup stains from the plates. Mop the floors with bleach.

Then Mamaw said: “you can come, go put on sumn’ propaw.”

So I struggled to hook my bra.

And fought with my bangs.

And chose a good frock.

And in my head, I was lighting up a cigar and snapping a picture of myself.

Oh, uNcLe Eric. He was a storm, I didn’t know was coming.

But young girls don’t prepare for storms.

Nah, they don’t. Their parents do.

They only sit by the table and play with the molten wax from the candle.

And form hand animals with their shadows.

And pretend to be a ghost whisperer.

Mamaw, never did prepare me for this hurricane.

And neither did Papaw.

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