Another Ending
Her mother was bad
began the new story from our teenage cousin,
replacing the worn recital of her dream
where the son of a youth minister takes
her picture naked in the shower.
The mother and daughter lived in this house.
My sister and I were glued to the porch
with syrup, a mix of every sno-kone flavor
called a “graveyard.” Her daughter was
too sexy. A bass punch shook the block
when a jet broke the sound barrier.
And the mother got jealous so she cut off
her daughter’s head and planted it in the garden.
Two girls crossed the lawn doing back-flips
and a cheer about lipstick and victory.
At night the head rolls around–roots
for hair, beetle-eyes, a worm for a tongue...
We all were stilled by the purple detail
and July’s midday heat. I remembered
how we liked to play in the storm cellar
until that day we found one entire wall
glistening with crickets. She hid the body
right under this porch. My sister performed
the role, pulling her T-shirt over her head--
a white torso, pale arms and legs.
Behind the screen door the winding siren
of our mother’s voice scolded my sister,
who wondered why the last time she took
her shirt off outside had to be the last time.
Slipstream, Issue #39, 2019
Her mother was bad
began the new story from our teenage cousin,
replacing the worn recital of her dream
where the son of a youth minister takes
her picture naked in the shower.
The mother and daughter lived in this house.
My sister and I were glued to the porch
with syrup, a mix of every sno-kone flavor
called a “graveyard.” Her daughter was
too sexy. A bass punch shook the block
when a jet broke the sound barrier.
And the mother got jealous so she cut off
her daughter’s head and planted it in the garden.
Two girls crossed the lawn doing back-flips
and a cheer about lipstick and victory.
At night the head rolls around–roots
for hair, beetle-eyes, a worm for a tongue...
We all were stilled by the purple detail
and July’s midday heat. I remembered
how we liked to play in the storm cellar
until that day we found one entire wall
glistening with crickets. She hid the body
right under this porch. My sister performed
the role, pulling her T-shirt over her head--
a white torso, pale arms and legs.
Behind the screen door the winding siren
of our mother’s voice scolded my sister,
who wondered why the last time she took
her shirt off outside had to be the last time.
Slipstream, Issue #39, 2019
