Helen W. Kenefick Poetry Prize, 2017

 

I work small bones from the back of my mouth 

to my front teeth, pluck and drop them 

in a pile on a plastic plate. How easy it could be to go 

like this: cross-legged on the kitchen stool, 

mackerel flash-fried only a moment ago, 

an un-tongued bone fixed and final in my throat. 

 

After shattering a bottle of Shalimar to slit her wrists, 

my mother paused—its alcohol would sterilize 

the wound. I must not want to die after all, she laughed. 

 

I can’t stop laughing as the barrel of a gun jabs my right side. 

No, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I know it’s not a joke, I say 

and back away, fold forward over my knees. 

The robber leaves, staggers crab-like out the door 

with only tens and ones—the event is done.

 

I’ll be all right, my mother decided, swept the glass 

and bagged it twice to protect the palms of garbage men. 

How her dresser smelled of death for days—

the perfumed haze made her open the shades, 

lift every window to bright noise.

 

 

 

This poem previously appeared in the Fall 2016 issue of Prairie Schooner.