By Tim DeYoung
There are bunches of them and they are busting with corruption.
The one with the watermelon head has put on a fake mustache
and the others are rolling on the floor, hands dug into their fat and
sordid stomachs, laughing like dumb people.
Cackling with a fistful of dry-erase markers,
the tall one, a ginger, writes “slut” across the board
in all caps before running the markers down
the face of a boy she calls Gay Bobby. He’s a lamb
and watches the green ink drip from a hair on his lip.
The fraternal twins are in the back closet in their underwear
chomping on capsules of fake blood. They can’t stand the starch
so they spit the red on the floor. The oldest one, by two minutes,
slips on the tile and his back smacks the floor like a wet basketball
while the younger one makes a joke about parting the Red Sea.
It is an unhealthy frenzy. All exhausted, they sleep
on a pile of fluorescent boas and tweed pea coats,
the dumbest one having a most brilliant dream;
God is there, well manifested in a burning shrub,
and tells him that the holy spirit is infused in everything
and you only have to squint to see it.
The boy’s exhale smells like pumpkin spice. And across the room
a girl with grey hair has woken up and is getting too warm while
sifting through wigs, she stands erect to let her heavy cotton sweatshirt
fall slowly to the floor, almost not falling at all, more like capsizing.