Scatology of Skylar 

The morning rolls its bones. Light bones. White atomic radiance of angels leaks through the  

off-square window decked in pink curtsey drapes the wind lifts and the gold dog peetxt undetxt The house's nails moan. Breakfast boils in the distant kitchen, scathing the air with its Japanese syllables. 

--Oh damn that scab! If you keep messing with it it'll never heal. 

A shivery pair of young arms, tucked like wings into each other's oil creases, stopped scratching their identical elbow scabs as if unplugged. No voice lifted from her cam-shaped face. A lazy fly hissed through the piston steam over the stove. 

Mrs Skylar's wooden spoon rumbles the eggs under white water. The bronzed dog bleaches to yellow in the postage stamp frame of the kitchen door, stepping out of the hard sun. One girl, a low composite of metal and ash, like just quarried platinum, slouches over a foldable fleck-topped table. 

The thin skeleton of a windchime sifted through the open hole of the window. Frosted glass spinning over ice. 

Mrs Skylar's dull satiny house robe, soft as if beaten on as washing rock, whispered against the shut-off controls of the blue gas stove. 

--They're ready. An empty bowl rose towards the incinerated spiders of the stove's grates. Muffled dropped eggs filled it like bubbles. 

The adolescent girl, alertly pubescent, cracked a fine hemline into a pedestalled egg with her aluminum fork delicately held in the attitude of a shovel. 

Mrs Skylar sinks into a plastic seat, fitting perfectly with the waxed hips of her puffed robe. Her girl, whose red and black scabbed elbows hover at the waterline of the glinting table edge in ugly ovals, tips a pooled yolk between her chapped lips. The unbuffed dog, the only male, collects itself in sa corner into an approximate circle. 

The girl rinses her soiled egg cup with a hard thumb and pressurized water in the crowded sink. Old movie magazines lie around. Leveling tables on the tilted floor, torn up for the romantic posters and clean skull smiles of happiness. 

--You know, she says, I could have been one of those actresses. One of those famous ones with the perfume billboards and "Laughing Feet" shoe accounts to boot. 

A big pile perches like a vulture on the refrigerator, concealing a clean spot. They give the impression, with their sun-dried outrageous reds, of a stopped fountain of blood emanating from the ice box, a headless heifer reared bull-like on its motor haunches. 

The dog yawns like a warped board. 

Staggering her serrated steps towards the wilted garage, the girl purled her engine mind towards paradise; it was either the globbed globe facade of a 30s cinema palace, or the closed reverie of a glass globe, streaked with a palette of lights. 

Once at her ticking workplace, she stood stiff behind her teller cage all day, dreaming of stuffed toucans and counting change.