Florence was a girl of the South.

Not the domed city of the Renaissance.

She loved to write and sing.

In English to Jesus

In Spanish to her friends.

He had nine fingers and half a thumb, 

Lost somewhere between a blink and a hum.  

He was not the man of the house, 

At least that's what most folks said.

Watch out for her mother!  That's what they'd say.

She breathes fire and eats brimstone.

Better hide the cold beer when your alone. 

Don't talk to that voice in your head.  

Unless you want Medusa to come and play. 

But Florence knew how to avoid her mother's stare.

She'd mirror her words and Southernisms

Voicing only what the touched woman wanted to hear.

Mommy dearest and her bulleted mechanism.

A scouts motto.  Be prepared.  And check your survival gear.

After school Florence would find a hiding place.

A dark Dewey haven for her words and lyrics.

By the lamp light, binding, sealing and stamping them.

In the postal book depository they went.

Long overdue, straight, not bent.

in the Great Library of Alexandria

Florence sought the light of another stone.

A foreign one that was not hot, but warm to the touch.

An olive colored stone, that could be squeezed  

A waterfall of silky oil, the emollient her desperate dry skin. 

Selim and his heart, 

thick,

spongy

ready to soak up any spilled blood