Edna’s Id

Id was perfect until
she took that course
at the Community college.
Id is everything: the sticky
perimeter of morning’s
mocha, Orson’s
bald-spot-wink in sun,
her garter’s red seam after
twenty-odd years, cellulite.

After that class, all of id
changed, moved up and
down and left her at the
bottom on her bottom,
wishing she still wanted
Orson’s bottom
always cold and rough in her
hands at night, afternoon,
morning. His impotent sting,
vacant song. Id is what she
wanted. Knew she couldn’t
get id back.


Author: April Line Writing

Writing about whatever the f*ck I want.

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