Smut Writer. Teddy Bear Lover.

I get nervous on escalators what if they keep going carrying you past the lobby past the doors I imagine floating in space because I never stepped off gripping those handrails my luggage keeping me company

I never signed up to be an astronaut The food is terrible I can’t see my house from the galaxy just a bunch of debris mostly satellites and advertisements for bladder aids soap operas and Crematoriums

since I’ve been unemployed sometimes I go a week or more without talking to anyone I forget what my voice sounds like I practice in the mirror

hello, hello, hello

I wonder if I’m one of those islands that old man wrote about how would I know? will my breasts become volcanic cones? can I point them at burglars or Mormons? let me talk to you about jes.. pew pew pew there went half of southern California we won’t miss anything but the redwoods anyway can I form a coral reef out of my belly fat? will my legs form atolls pointing towards treasure? maybe brownie mix isn’t treasure to everyone

are you worth anything if you’re not working? I think I might curl up into my closet dry out until I become beef jerky wait for someone to come along and chew on me I bet I taste awful so they’d have to work for it then I’d be useful a warming of a sort

I’m moving back to the south and I’m conflicted over king cakes and bluebell ice cream and slow molasses accents heat and mosquitos and cockroaches as big as Godzilla I want to learn how to speak quietly there so the bugs can’t hear me hide my hair so the Klan can’t find me

statute of limitations on murder not rape death of the soul does not equate in a justice system

my father fattened me up for Christmas turkey kegs plump from sugar cookies men like brides who are round and less likely to run I was disappointed they were unlike a T-Rex

my thoughts have separated they can’t be monogamous anymore hope keeps pessimism alive watching the heartbeat monitor beep to a beat we can all dance to

my medulla oblongata grows fat telling me to stop breathing or to vomit can’t keep that Thanksgiving dinner down

pageant girls gather begin to run in packs on all fours hunting on hot asphalt streets while they can still speak they say running is easier than walking in high heels they grow long nails, file their teeth into points

none of them are over fourteen tabloids call them Savage Misguided Wrong women men attempt to corral them into wooden pens they tear down the planks using the nail filled oak to strike shitting on the rest

in a certain kind of light my hands are more pink than white I resemble a Victorian ghost killed in a freak farming accident perhaps tripping on a goat or burning myself to death building a fire I’d probably never be small enough to fit in those chimneys even ten year old me had chubby knees

on warm nights I remember growing up in Louisiana bugs burrowing into my skin cockroaches as fat as nutria rats finding homes in light fixtures you’d think they’d know better than to come inside where all the microwaves are my goal was always to get away be buried somewhere dark and cold with snow all around and mountains looming like old men

my mother died on the dialysis machine kidney full of cocaine belly full of Dr. Pepper so young, I wonder what she’d be if she were old same face as me, same voice same belly full of snakes

I named them once, colored them green and yellow in my mind mass of serpents that come alive when the bills are due or I discover a new kind of cancer that eats flesh

he wears a mask in this candlelit Italian restaurant spaghetti splatters his balaclava stains the camo underneath I’ll need strings an a protractor to sort this out

he tells me his name is Carl but it could be Benito or Brad I don’t care but I don’t tell him that his eyes might shoot me and my insurance has run out

Carl or Benito or Brad orders for me insalata and water no wine my hips are too wide for bread

he says Italians are good people they speak English mostly and the linguine is nice

he watches the dishwashers through the porthole in the kitchen door the way a fisherman watches for mermaids and large tuna horizon an open mouth behind him

he yells dónde estoy quién eres deme su documento de identidad his hand on his gun

I think about swiping right on that photo of him wrapped around a golden lab his face in profile

he’s shy but he loves dogs right long walks on the beach sand between his toes

Hank was dead before I hit him with the shovel the second time. The first was enough to crush his skull. It was a very good shovel, made of steel and wood. I used to have dreams about it lying under my bed, unable to tell the black shovel from the darkness of the night.

It was heavier than a wooden shovel but I’d played baseball all summer. I could lift it easily. I don’t think Hank knew that about me before.

I kept hitting him until blood and gore covered me, warming my face and hands in the cold dark. An owl hooted nearby.

I see you. I see you.

I kept hitting him. My arms grew sore. My fingers froze.

I propped the shovel up against the backdoor. It was a very good shovel, it deserved care. But I didn’t have the energy to clean it. I pressed my face against the wood of the door, leaving red imprints. My breath came out in white puffs.

I went inside.

Alaina was in the kitchen, making eggs. They were good eggs that came in packaging that said “organic” and “free range”. Maybe the lack of cruelty made eggs taste better, like it was some sort of freedom seasoning. I can’t tell the difference.

I sat at the table, dripping blood onto the floor and the white tablecloth. It ate at the whiteness, slowly covering the surface as the still wet substance spread.

Alaina was pristine in her apron. It had a picture of a windmill on it, one of those old school Dutch ones surrounded by tulips. My grandmother, Fenn, had immigrated from there and had taught her recipes that I’d never bothered to learn. No time for it now. No time for anything anymore.

She slid a plate with an omelet on it over to me. It looked soft and fluffy. I poked it and found the runny center. Just how I liked it.

“He’s gone then,” she said.

I took a bite while the food was still warm. I chewed slowly, tasting blood and salt. I closed my eyes. It was so good. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was, how my belly craved the warm.

“Remember that dog I had when I was twelve? The rat terrier with the black paws,” I asked.

She turned away and started to wash dishes. I saw her hands tremble as she scrubbed.

“Pinky,” she said. “Such an odd little dog. You found it on the train tracks, limping. Those devil boys had shot her with bb guns for fun.”

I smiled. “I found them later. They had this clubhouse they’d built in the forest. Me and Shirley burned it down and hit them with some wooden sticks until they swore they’d never hurt an animal again.”

Her mother sighed. “I told them boys’ mothers that my daughter Zoë would do no such thing.”

“Guess you were wrong,” I said. I looked down at the table. Hank had made it out of a big piece of oak. I’d seen him sanding it and polishing it in the garage. It was beautiful.

“He killed old Pinky,” I said. “Said she howled too much. Said she was too dirty. Said it wasn’t proper to have such a tiny dog in the house. Big man.”

I’d buried that mutt in the backyard, near the giant redwood outside my window. I hadn’t put a marker on it, he’d have only kicked it over.

Alaina gripped the edge of the sink, her hands were white from the strength she was using.

“You didn’t kill him over no dog.”

“Shirley is never coming back,” I said. “After she got out of the hospital her papa told me they were heading to Florida. He said there ain’t no justice in this town for a black girl.”

“They never proved any of that, Zoë. She never saw who assaulted her. It could have been anyone.”

I knew my mother didn’t believe that. My daddy and a few of his friends had been raping girls in the area for years. His friends had money and clout so they got away with it. Hank always got away with it.

I couldn’t make myself confront her, not with her back turned. Not with her voice and her shoulders shaking like an earthquake.

I gripped the fork so hard it hurt my hand. I imagined going upstairs and finding my father’s shotgun. I imagined loading it with shells from the nightstand. I’d use it while her back was turned, just like that. Then I’d turn it around.

She lied to herself all the time. She lied to me too. I couldn’t stand it.

I stared down at that runny omelet. She’d used the sharp cheddar too. She knew I hated any other kind.

“I wrote a letter for Shirley. Could you mail it for me, mama? Her church should have her new address. Reverend Holmes is who you should ask.”

My mother’s shoulders shook. “I’ll do that,” she said.

She didn’t say anything else. She never turned around. This might be the last time she’d see me and she never turned around.

I went up to my room and took a shower until the water wasn’t red anymore. I wiped the steam from the mirror. My eyes were still red. My face was black and swollen, my right eye nearly shut. I took a handful of Tylenol with a palmful of water.

I changed into a pair of soft pajamas with llamas on them and got into bed, pulling the covers over me. I could see the trees outside my window, swaying in the breeze.

They’d be along soon, knocking on our door.

She was down there calling them now. She wouldn’t check on the body, she wouldn’t check to see if he was still alive or if he needed help.

I closed my eyes but I could still see the trees, tall and green. I could see the night birds in them, hear them calling to each other.

my hair was made of snakes I named them, each one curling around my ears my neck, the divot in my forehead

those boys, they said I was too shy kept to corners and bookshelves my snakes licking the spines

nobody wants to be rude enough to refuse an invite house party no parents no more red solo cups from the punchbowl

girls who say no are annoying back markers spell out words I never remembered writing

my skin a map of excess someone recording but will never admit it were my eyes closed?

cut my snake hair with scissors and knives they scream as their heads separate fangs trying desperately to defend

ain't it hard to turn them to stone? steal their screams and bodies like they stole mine

could never make myself move that camera, it turned me into stone instead shape of an epitaph

can’t wipe the words away permanent ink worse than a tattoo hotter than a brand

wake up naked, shorn body broken, memory gone my eyes still work

turn anyone to rocks now cop who asks me too many questions or not enough

paperboy, bagboy, postman man who mows the lawn at dawn preacher full of those brimstone bullets

guards tiptoe by ain’t she the monster ain’t she blind yet ain’t she trapped enough to stop us being afraid

in southern Louisiana mosquitoes are as big as queens making the crook of your elbow a throne of blood humidity like big cat breath on the back of your neck

grade school-we visit plantations surrounded by swamp quicksand soil advertised to contain the ghosts of slaves owned by old white men still cracking the whip haunting after death working for no pay always the same way

don’t kill yourself today you gotta stay and listen I just read this thing about a guy who got stuck in quicksand he wasn’t acme or bunny or bird got cold feet on the mountain no ladder no how

and he lived man he lived

You should too

babe I told you about my mother once how her lips burned on that crack pipe my lips too, black and blue crying like she was dead already she kept trying to die over and over on that inflatable mattress woke up a zombie in the hospital ready to burn us all for a cigarette fuck if her heart could take it

and it’s cold now never used to be body was a furnace always too hot testosterone maybe hormones all fucked up teeter totter now, they’re up and down

Christmas reminds me of swamps graves, late night phone calls she’s fallen she’s in the hospital she’s dead she’s dead

nobody remembers her but me I am the keeper of names stories, sounds, and recipes she told me once she found a whale beached and still alive she pushed with her skinny arms but could not budge the bulk whole town joined her all straining and straining that whale wouldn’t move an inch kept breathing, struggling, suffering so they fed it tossed water over it built a house around it so it wouldn’t get cold

there is a way women scream silent as sock footed mice black holes for eyes hard to be afraid when you can’t see

we play leapfrog for want of want not need jump rabbits jump if the rabbit dies we cancel the abortion

do you stargaze now? strategize for comets rapture take us all for food

we can search dumpsters not expired too much left last Thursday enough to break the crust

walk instead ducks floating in the drinking water not sick yet we ain’t pay attention

Netflix cares if I live or die sometimes it’s the only thing asking if I’m still here

bees buzz in my belly talking to me are you pregnant yet? indigent, even indulgent always willing to be fed

How are you doing? I’m doing fine.

got a letter from my dead dog nose and paw prints sent me a dream before postage paid

I can’t leave on Mondays weight of the week like bricks and wet sand settle for a blanket filled with plastic beads

How are you doing? I’m doing fine.

can’t taste anything no more salt sweet fat it’s all cardboard and static are spices important anymore?

bought a pillow to make it easier to sleep through Tuesday

I swallowed the moon today found it floating in my bowl of Cheerios this morning and thought might as well

it was thick and white round buoy in milk tides stuck to the back of my teeth tasting strangely of nothing though I’d eat another if I found it