The Ugly Truth speaks with a deep voice,
walks with a slight limp, and
wears his high blood pressure on his face
dripping crimson and angry down his thick neck.
The Ugly Truth gestures with an addict's trembling
hands, searching for failure, and wears a
mouth that lost its smile in 1932.
The Ugly Truth holds the Ten Commandments in one hand
and a leather strap stained with the blood of the saints in the other.
He’s reserved a place in Heaven, but, unknown to him,
Satan has cleared out a cold cell for the bastard in hell.
The Ugly Truth sleeps in the bed of the past
and pays for a bed in the future like a harlot
hunting on Sunset Boulevard.
The Ugly Truth was born to a beautiful
woman who crocheted doilies with bitter lies.
And he cried for his mama's tender
touch long after she left, leaving him scarred
and hungry for a taste of her sacred milk.
The Ugly Truth can’t remember his father but
he smells the old man's liquor and knows
he would've made a damn good father if he
hadn't been a leech sucking on the heart.
About Brenda Rose:
Brenda Rose is an artist, freelance writer, and blogger who made the mistake of mispronouncing Butte, Montana during a visit there in 1989. She dreams of sleeping in that magestic place of rare beauty again. Her works have appeared or are forthcoming in Flycatcher: A Journal of Native Imagination, Ginosko Literary Magazine, and The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature.