1.

Maybe it’s because I grew up poor in Mississippi.

2a.

From one ovum, armadillos produce four genetically identical offspring, representing the four corners of the Earth.

2b.

The day before a migraine, I want to eat dirt.

3a.

The armadillo’s origin was Latino and Pacific. Making her slow way, she populated the East, all the way to Florida, but Cold has blocked her way north. She can go no further than Nebraska and Kansas.

3aa.

I find myself out in the garden, fighting to restrain my urges. Then come the holes in my vision, the sizzling light.

4.

Mama Armadillo waits for Global Warming to further open the door. Her ambition is to sleep in Minneapolis and a constellation of points in Canada, including the Yukon.

5.

The world is a nauseating blur of throbbing pain.

6.

Meanwhile, her current geo-limits frustrate her, create spiritual tension within her. Nature demands groups of four. North must not evade her.

7.

The children crowd around the ice cream counter, shrieking orders. Their voices ripsaw through my skull.

8.

She suffers sexual tension as well. You can see it in her gait, in the way she eats fire ants.

9.

Serving ice cream is how I make my living. If I flee, I’ll be sleeping on the street. That won’t help my migraines.

10.

The Four Armadillo Siblings also represent the Father, Son, Holy Ghost, and Holy Criminal. Armadillos gather on the steps of the Catholic Church, seeking confession and absolution, but no priest will serve them. No priest will offer them salvation, even now that Francis is pope—Francis who preached to birds and creatures of all kinds.

11.

I raise my hands to silence the children, but my gesture has no effect. It’s not in their vocabulary.

12.

In the Fiesta of the Sacred Cross, tequila drunkards play harmonicas made from armadillo shell, play accordions with keys of pearl and armadillo, shake tambourines that ring with armadillo toes. My dentist extracted all my teeth and replaced them with dentures made of armadillo shell. If I bite someone I can give them leprosy, even if I merely kiss them, and I’m feeling aggressive, like a first grader with no social skills. I’m feeling affectionate, too. I’m blowing into a saxophone made from a scooped-out armadillo corpse.

13.

A memory breaks in, the origin of my gesture. It was used by a grade school teacher when the class got out of control. That man wore shabby black suits and a perpetual grimace, shaved haphazardly. His quieting gestures never worked. I have a flash of insight—that poor man also suffered from migraines.

14.

I’m feeling hopeful as a jazz moon and the new year approach.

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MITCHELL KROCKMALNIK GRABOIS’ novel, Two-Headed Dog, based on his work as a psychologist in a state hospital, is available for Kindle and as a print edition. His poetry collection, The Arrest of Mr. Kissy Face will be published by Pski’s Porch Publications in early 2019. He lives in Denver, Colorado, USA.