The Raging Goddess of Limbo
Brigitte went into the house
and came back out with our blanket
and her favorite flashlight.
My Bridge collected flashlights.
She had a brown paper grocery bag
full of flashlights. This one was red
and chrome with a decal of a spaceman
with the lettering “Captain Ray-O Vac.”
Night had fallen. We were heading
to our own protected dark thicket
in a wooded section in Forestlawn.
Our portal between heaven and hell.
Shining a little light into the darkness.
I awoke to stabbing pain and a hard
weight pushing down into my back
pinning me and a hand was gripping
my hair and pushing my face down
into the blanket. “Hey Kent State boy
you been harassed by the piggies
yet tonight?” I could move my arms
and I was waving them across
the blanket to feel for Bridge but then
a shadow rushed up and a foot
was crushing my right hand. A body
shifted over me and I knew a knee
was in my back and I could make out
a car engine humming. “Hey power
to the people! We gonna have
a revolution!” A different voice.
I yelled out for Bridge and the hand yanked
my head up. Bridge was standing there
but I couldn’t see her face. The flashlight
was directed straight to her garden.
The hand pushed my head back down
and the flashlight moved my way
and I saw a plain black boot with a shiny
half-moon black patent leather toe.
“What’s the matter? You ain’t holding
no good shit tonight?. These pukes
are clean tonight. They got nothing
in their stuff. Lemme look in his wallet.”
The flashlight moved to the voice.
There must be three of them.
“Oh look. This Nancy boy’s got a library
card and a Wayne State I. D. card.
He’s a cute little Commie queer.
Hey, Janis Joplin, what ya doing
with this fag? It’s ass kicking time.”
And just like that they rushed off.
I went to Bridge and she was
standing in the dark with her arms
raised straight in the air. Car doors
slammed and they squealed off.
Bridge stood tall naked in the darkness
pointing at the sky like the raging
Goddess of Limbo and screamed
“That mother fucker took my flashlight
and he and his children are cursed.”
Mark James Andrews lives and writes in Metro Detroit. He is the author of five chapbooks. The latest is At The Ice Cow Queen On Mack from Alien Buddha Press. His poetry has appeared in Chiron Review, Nerve Cowboy, Hiram Poetry Review, Slipstream, Trailer Park Quarterly and many other spots.
