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by Alexis Rhone Fancher the girl is overdose. her mother, a picnic each Sunday on her grave. the girl is eggshell—no, the girl is soufflé. dead meat, the boy hangs himself while housesitting. his parents are a cut-short European tour; why the rush— dead is dead. his mother is chasm. she skids until memory falls in. Alzheimer’s or grief? not even the autopsy knows for sure but I do: memory is bludgeon, is dagger to throat, is picnics in graveyards will sink your boat. this is what I know to be true: either you bite the bullet or the bullet bites you. Copyright 2020. All rights reserved.
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