burials
by Marin Madden
I.
You’ve made yourself at home in my floorboards again.
I put you there, I remember, some foggy day when my mind
convinced me the rain was still falling long after it had stopped.
You lay beneath the rotted wood and scratched at my feet,
following me around the house as I cooked and cleaned and lived.
You sang lullabies in languages only you and I knew,
and I rocked asleep to the sound of your snores rattling the nails loose.
You told me things I don’t remember anymore. I hear them in the nothing.
II.
You’ve crawled up to the windows now. You lick them clean
with your tongue, hissing at birds as they swing threateningly by.
I hum your lullabies as I do the dishes. You eat whatever
I put in front of you, asking for seconds by pawing at my feet.
I give you love instead. You hang your bones in my closet
and try on my dresses, so they always reek of dust and decay.
I love you more than I know what to do with. You love me
like the thing that killed the dinosaurs—catastrophically.
III.
I can hear you on the roof, clawing the shingles out of place.
You put them back in half-hazard patterns, spelling out
every mad thought we share for all our neighbors to see.
They think some kids have been pulling pranks on me. I tell them
the house is haunted with a smile I know is too wide.
They don’t talk to me anymore. You do. You talk all the time,
in low growls and quiet mewls. I do the morning crossword
in the blood leaking slowly from my fingernails and you howl
all your pain out as if the stars will someday learn to care.
IV.
I find you in my garden, snapping thorns off the rose bushes.
You collect them in your palms and bury them deep in the dirt
where they can’t hurt me anymore. I bandage your fingers
and kiss your laugh lines. We plant flowers from teeth
we pulled from our own mouths. We flash each other gummy smiles
and collect herbs and spices like we’re witches brewing potions.
In reality I pour soup into two bowls and we sit on the floor
under the table, sipping at prophecies we don’t believe in.
V.
You hide yourself away in my basement, the door banging open
and closed every time the wind screams. I can hear you crying
as I sweep the ceiling. I tangle cobwebs in my hair and douse
the mess in gasoline, setting myself ablaze. You slink upwards
at the smell of smoke. I’m nothing but bones now, haunting you.
You collect those bones in a pot and tape the lid shut. You shake
me out like a head of lice. The whole house trembles with our music.
I wake up from the strangest dream.
VI.
You set the table with my mother’s china. You drag knives
along the surfaces and laugh when they screech. You crunch heads
between your teeth like brussel sprouts and tell me about your day.
I hang your coat on the coatrack and your hat on the hook. Your briefcase
is in the back hall next to my heels. We dance barefoot in the kitchen
and stab rusted nails into our necks. We sit there bleeding out and rocking softly.
The man on the radio says the world is coming to an end. You and I
will not be saved. We don’t believe in god.
VII.
You’ve found your way into my bed. The sky is on fire. I love you
and love you and love you until my heart gives out. You squeeze it
until it beats again. I collect your teeth in jars and braid your hair
into necklaces. We become some tangled, messed-up thing.
I do not leave the house anymore. You prowl the grocery store aisles.
We bathe in milk and honey and rinse off in holy water.
Every part of us is blistered and burned. You love me
and love me and love me until your heart gives out.
I eat you for dinner and you’re back the next morning.
VIII.
How would I define you? Let’s put this to the test.
The newspaper says eight more children have died. I call that
your silly game. I am only bones today. You sip tea and cut out ads
for food we cannot eat. I count coins and never put them back in jars.
I step on them like it’s lucky. My skin is rubbed raw. The woman on the TV
thinks we are abominations. I take your temperature.
We are not sick, I say. We are not sick. We are not sick.
You throw up doll heads on my feet.
IX.
You sit on the porch and rock, rock, rock. I cut, cut, cut apart
every photograph I have of us. I see you in the mirror. You laugh
and I laugh even when nothing’s funny. Copy that, copy that.
You pull my strings and I pull yours. Our wooden limbs clink tirelessly
like windchimes tempting death. I tell murderers our home address.
They come in droves and I use them for firewood.
You don’t open our freezer anymore, for fear of dead birds.
I put nine heads in the fridge. When I open it they blink, blink, blink.
X.
She tells me I must put the toys away. I am scaring everyone out of loving me.
I wrap myself up in my skin again. I break my bones in right. I shove in
matching eyeballs, sand down my tongue, flatten my brain. I hug you tightly
and shutter you beneath the floorboards. She pats my head and says good job.
I lie in bed and pretend to sleep. You croak out a lullaby. I can hear her
down the hall, humming hymns. The world is coming to an end,
the man on the radio says. She turns him off. It is oh so very quiet.
I press my palms against my cheeks to hold my face together.
I tie up the story the way I was told to. Everyone claps but I feel empty.
You scratch at my feet. Scratch, scratch, scratch.
I.
Are monsters real? he asks, as children do.
I tuck him in and say goodnight.
Of course not, I say, and make it dark.
Real does not matter. Real does not change.
The world is ending, the man says. It has been fifteen years.
The world is always ending.
You stare back at me from the mirror.
Tick, tock; tick tock. Thump, thump; thump thump.
Hello, hello.
Are monsters real, Mommy?
The world is ending.
Yes, I say.
Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.