Bob Dylanís Lost Children
In a rest stop bathroom
somewhere in Kentucky
I ran into my stripper friend.
I was throwing blackened fetuses
into the waste bin and real plastic-like dolls too.
You donít want to get caught, she said.
So I went into a stallódumped those
unborn babies in and began flushing themó
some got stuck in the white oval mouth.
When the water turned those inky bundles
to flesh and their lips opened like fish,
and when they cried save meó I ran outside.
I stood in front of a tree with my friend,
You should come strip with me tonight,
she said dragging hard on a long cigarette.
But what about Robert? I asked.
And then I wondered about Robert
if he was my boyfriend, Iíd never even heard of him.
Oh just come on. Forget him. She tugged
my hand, And for Godís sake throw those
in the dumpster in the back before the cops get you.
I felt the plastic bag make my palm sweat,
held tight to the bow Iíd tied;
I watched as those nearly-made babies
kicked their milky dark feet inside,
then I walked back behind the bathroom
and tossed the bag over my shoulder without looking,
flicked the cigarette Iíd been smoking,
watched as dust turned to fire at my feet.
Teresa Petro-Micchelli is published online with Nasty Safari and No Teeth. She has print publications in Backbone Mountain Review, Little Patuxant Review, and Review Revue. She is poetry editor for shady side review and serves as an assistant editor for The Fourth River. She currently resides in Pittsburgh where she often thinks of installing a sun.