The Atheist Wore Goat Silk I’ve wanted to visit the genetically modified goat spliced with silkworm DNA spinning white threads from its pink udders like a piebald spider. I’ve wondered how much for a whole goat silk dress? Always I save the spiders that shimmy near my eyes but never the bristled silverfish which drop to the boatwood dinner table from the skylight. Come Indian Summer the fuchsia bougainvillea unpurses its dry lips, licks the sweat from my neck. My mother tells her childhood best friend—who’s dying from liver cancer in Jackson, who consults a Pentecostal woman who speaks in tongues—that her two daughters are atheists. Meaning my little sister and me. Somewhere there’s a goat that squirts a rare silk so bizarre maybe no one would actually wear it. That webbed dress sticking to my chest, the grandfather clock, all over the bedroom walls like a past that drags everything with it. The thread leading back to an animal I badly need to believe in. Its impossible milk steams in the twilight. There’s a dress that rises from its udders with a misted sleeve I can almost see. Credit: Copyright © 2014 by Anna Journey
Posted on: Wed, 10 Dec 2014 14:00:49 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015