As I'm raking my husband's remains, I think of the thousand on the countertop.
We will use the cash to walk. Birthing my child away from you seems pointless.
I know you are squirming in shackles. My throat is parched, yet I don't smell
blood. Was mine tasty? Are you sure you didn't lick your fingers while I was
crawling past the bowl, trying to cry with my mouth shut to avoid being force-
fed dirty sunlight rushing from the freeway? There's gum underneath this nook
that won't come off. The door stays ajar. I leave it open for my mother. In the
play I was a witch. You didn't know this, but during opening night I thought of
you. I take the nines out. When the baby kills me, is it over?
By Wayne LowQLRS Vol. 19 No. 1 Jan 2020