05/13/2021 08:24 PM  commination.   when he leans over the back of the couch to kiss your cheek, it’s a little after midnight. embers burn sadly from the hearth; soft crackles spit. the television’s on mute because you never pay attention to it anyway, not really. the news doesn’t interest your type. you don’t care about any country. city. or person but yourself. perfume uppercuts and it’s not yours. something cheaper. stronger. too floral for your taste. cherry edges the ivory collar of his shirt, the first button already undone as he begins unfastening the rest. your toes curl and a steady breath stills you. calms whatever madness you’d usually set loose. you shock collar it into submission. “you’re late,” you offer up a smile in exchange for his careless shrug. “i can’t control time, elvira.” tension takes its rightful place in the space between you both. a stare filled with nothing but curious provocation. you both want the other to start it —— no arguing, yet, but ever the constant clash for the higher ground. another chaste kiss to your forehead and he makes for the stairs, hand clasped on the bannister. shirt at his feet. “sweetheart?” and your honeyed tenors drip sickly sweet. your smile makes his teeth hurt. “what is it?” you look back to your book, conversations with god: book four,  “rosary got out of her room earlier, and i haven’t seen her since.” you see his breath catch from where you sit; the best seat in the house. witness the colour fade from freckled cheeks. admire the trepidation in his squint. “. . . your black widow!?” girls and their spiders! silence comes in the wake of a nod. seconds seem like days. your husband finally breaks, asks: “what should i do if i find it?” “her,” you correct as you use your book to motion at the discarded shirt on the floor. saying, without words: pick it up you fucking animal. he retreats to use the shower downstairs. “just watch your step, honey; she won’t appreciate being stood on.” threat delivered. threat heeded. 0 Comments

05/13/2021 08:23 PM  baby blues.   short of three months, and you still can’t connect to her. every morning you stand at the foot of her crib; waiting to see if she’ll wake. unmoving; swaddled; head lolling to one side. there’s a quick rise and fall to her chest —— then it stops. it stops for too long and you don’t panic. you don’t rush to place a finger beneath her nose; you don’t look for breath. and she always does —— she always wakes —— even on the days you wish she wouldn’t. he tells you some women aren’t meant to be mothers . . . your husband. he makes you think of the woman who birthed you and it makes sense that you feel nothing for your own babe. your mom never felt much for you. it’s almost seven a.m. and you’re in cordelia’s room. her father stands behind you, a hand on your shoulder as a half-hearted means of comfort. there’s whiskey on your breath; white powder clings to your nostrils; sticks to smudged lipstick. carrion red. he says, “it’s your first mother’s day.” he adds, “you should be happy.” you romanticise your life before your daughter. before your marriage. before you became tethered to two whole beings with emotions and thoughts beyond your control. your eyes sting because you picture the what ifs: what if you used protection. what if you took a trip to the clinic. what if god simply intervened. you cry because you catch yourself wishing your child had been nothing more than nectar dripping down your thighs. her father thinks you’re sad because you miss your own mother. not because you wish hadn’t become one. he says, “you can’t keep letting her haunt you.” he adds, “it’ll turn you into a ghost, too.” and doesn’t that sound nice? 0 Comments

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