Conte, a journal of narrative writing.

Olive Oil of My Mosque
Joslyn, on the roof of the house, squats her
white ass over the edge of the roof and pisses
on the blossoms below. The piss hisses. The
hissing pissing sprays down, glittering in the
moonlight, from the top of the white house.
The blossoms drip and tremble in the liquid
onslaught. I don't know what this blossom is
anymore, but I know what this Joslyn is. I
know the lush green tree in her head is golden
in the overwhelming sunlight. Now, in my
head, I charge at her and kick her ass off the
roof. I observe the fall, and in dimness of
moonlight her gnarled face spills graciously
into the fabric of her nightgown and the skin of
the blossoms.