All the men I love carry a sweetness: a reluctance, a voice laced
with honey, anything society deems ordinary on a woman.
My father was a soft violence taken by a softer violence
the size of a golf ball. The night remembers a blooming fist, the way he held the bottle
like an oyster holds an intruder against its fleshiest parts. We remember the way he battered
fish as the kitchen sweat, which is to say we’ve constructed a better version
of the truth. Last week, in the backyard, I listened
to the wrinkled man interrupting the woman trapped in the speakerbox
as he sang Happy Birthday to the woman in the yellow dress. The seasoned
brain matter of crawfish plops on the faded newspaper in my lap as someone
lights the cake’s candles. The music, which I don’t remember now, is soaked
with a story about a girl in love with a false version of the truth. We watch
the woman surround her cake and I’m reminded that everyone I love is dying.
Read more from Issue No. 15 or share on Facebook and Twitter.