Babysitting

The house reeks of cat shit,
and unwanted cats.

The baby screams.

She’s named after a porn star.

How long will she wail?

I rub her back until she quiets
but, like Zeno’s arrows, her sobs
never completely die.

The only songs I know are
Sanskrit chants and I sing them,
but worry that she knows
the difference.

I doubt she hears lullabies at all.

I hand the words to her like playthings,
offering the heart like the jewel in the lotus.

After several hours my voice
is yellow and rough.

Each time I leave the room
she stands on pale legs and
cries again, her face wet
with fresh sobbings upon
my return.

I cannot wait until midnight
when I collect my money,
take a shower

and sleep.

In the Waiting Room

My foot flicks restlessly
as I watch a puffy
woman with round fish eyes
exhaling bubbles and sighs
flopping in her chair.

After the fifth exclamation
I turn, politely inquiring.
Her mouth explodes:

She worked a long day
her boyfriend won’t put out
and the diet just isn’t happening.

I try to listen and ignore
the particles swimming
around her open mouth.
I bob my head up and down
clearing the space between us.

The mouth continues until
a metal door floats open,
revealing the deformed body
of a young boy.

His back is arched
in the wrong place,
his collar bone extends
to his drooping earlobes,
his head is tight in the middle
as though it grew in a vice.

The fish woman leaps
out of her stream of self-pity
splashing back down
as she approaches him.

“Hurry the hell up!
I want to get to D & D's before
it closes; I’ve had a hard day!”
as she swishes away ahead of him.

The boy swallows something,
offers me an ironic smile
and hobbles out behind her.

— Jessica Reidy