The Bankers Daughter

It’s not like you to be quiet for so long, I think, so I poke your bloated corpse with my pencil.  You let out a simpering, reassuring gurgle. That settles it, I guess you love me.

Some day I’ll be old enough to be a corpse of my own, but for now, I roll you down the hall and tuck you neatly into bed with me.  You lay there, so sweet, with your eyes closed.  I worry you will get cold so I put an extra blanket on.

I pretend to care, so I get up in the morning and make you coffee, which I bring to you. You haven’t woken up yet.  When I prop you up, your eyes flick open like a baby dolls.

All day you follow me around, like a black golden retriever, tethered to me like a quivering balloon that demands attention.  When I gently stroke your head, your hair starts falling out.  So I superglue it back on for you.

I need to go to the store and I decide to take you with me.  You hold my hand and help me push the cart, while your feet drag behind us, limp.  I buy you the body wash you want so you don’t start to stink.

When night comes, I shut the blinds.  I make dinner and I ask you what you want to eat.  You never have an opinion when it comes to these things, and you don’t really eat that much these days, either.

I’m never lonely these days for I’m never truly alone.  You are always doing something funny.  Today, you are swelling up and it’s my job to keep you from rupturing.

The Kernel

“It’s just a little kernel of hate,” I say, as I roll it over and over again in the palm of my hand.
Tiny and green, full of potential, ready to sprout.
“I take it home,” I say, as I pop it in my mouth.
Just like pop corn, chew, munch, chew.

I take you home and set you on the windowsill so I can look at you and see you every day.
Just like the mug that holds safe my toothbrush by the sink.

I watch and I wait, it’s like Christmas. When will you pop and sprout out the top of my head like a fucking lemon tree, you bitter little bastard?

No, I say. A kernel so perfect should be coiled up and kept safe, as I turn your face away, the face that’s on the mug. I’m done having you watch me and my kernel.

Little kernel, you’ve been planted in the best place I could find. My heart. Gulp and swallow, choking back, until I shit you out and the process starts all over again.

Hate is now too strong a word for you. “But perhaps it’s the most appropriate,” I say, and I crush my little kernel into the ground, grinding it’s pulpy insides out like a tick gorged on my blood.

“Do you know what I want to do to you?” I say to the face on the mug. I want to crush you like that kernel, until your juices flow, until your pulpy insides are mixt with dirt, until you cry your soul out through your eyes. Then maybe I won’t hate you quite so much.

A Meal with My Dead Family

A Meal with My Dead Family

33 years reflecting upon 8.

Eating popcorn above the sink.  Nothing special.

Memories glide by my eyes.  I’m taken.

Quiet.  Pine and fresh, blueberry muffins and bacon, and

…dust.

The smell of dingy old plaid curtains, beloved for what they represent.

Dappled light trickling through and outside

…outside.

Jays with mohawks, chipmunks, no fences between here and the neighbors,

hunkpapa.

New stones to collect and we are going to the lake.

Buoyed and tepid, thinking of you then,

millions and million of years ago.

Reaching for a warm blueberry muffin, pealing the top off,

locking eyes around the tiny, sun filled breakfast nook in a cabin,

millions and millions of miles away,

I smile at you all, feasting on bacon and vacation,

vivid as yesterday, pungent like a nosebleed from the dry altitude,

we were happy, healthy, and whole, weren’t we?

….weren’t we?