153 Readings | 2 Ratings

Tiny Fists

Your fiance laughs to himself when he thinks no one is watching. You are watching. You are making dinner in the kitchen with missing walls. You are the legs the abandoned kitten weaves. Her milk mouth mouthing a silent meow. She licks between every pink toe. Grains of rice fall behind her, and these you sweep up.  You crush the cat’s pills with the back of your spoon. You remember cocaine. Your body a spaceship. Black t-shirts, bar bathrooms, skateboards.

Tonight Herbie Mann sounds like a fool, feminine ephemera, plastic recorder dipped in bleach, 4th grade. You fry tomatoes, you fry okra, you fry basil in butter. You dip your spoon into what you’ve made. Hot oil falls across your hand like a constellation. Tin can lids smell like blood. Maybe that’s what everything is made of?

White Stripes. Better. You think drums should always sound like anger.

There is a black speck in your brain like a floater. Since the miscarriage, you can’t look at raw meat. Eyes closed, your fingers run across the clear jelly coating the steak. You Helen Keller to the sink. The neighbors are staring through the blind, through your eyelids vesseled like new oysters.

If you laughed, what would it sound like? Couldn’t you just open the door to see the stars? It’s not like you’re trapped here. It’s not like you can’t move. She had the littlest hands in the shape of clubs.

Posted 08/21/18
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