Shicky Gnarowitz was the tune emanating out of the underbrush while you made a deal with the crisply spatted Devil, still sure that you'd felt the ephemeral breath of the loophole that could postpone your undoing in this antebellum town.
Shicky Gnarowitz is the lightly dusted book of photographs that your grandmother couldn't show you, a faded corporal shadow hovering at the edge of sepia-toned squares of a life you'd never understand. She kept them in the false bottom of a steamer trunk.
Shicky Gnarowitz was in the hive of bees on St.Begas piece of sod as she drifted through salted seas, her only sustenance the honey they produced. When the wind turned sour, they spun madly about her but never stung.
Shicky Gnarowitz is the widow in black chiffon, walking by the open windows of a summer evening's wedding feast and wilting the magnolias on the maid of honor's dress.
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