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Look at yourself, Kristina.
You’re incapable of caring
for a baby. You’re off the deep
end. Do you want to drown him, too?
Her words bring back a dream
I had when I was pregnant.
A dream about Hunter drowning.
Suddenly it’s Bree I want to drown.
Bree and the fucking monster.
Tears well up, unbidden, and I
have no chance at stopping
them from falling. I want to die.
But all I can say at this moment
is, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Not Exactly Forgiven
SEMICONSCIOUS
On my big bed, swathed in mauve, almost catatonic,
some part of me does understand that I have deserted
my motherhood post, gone AWOL, at the urging of the
the enemy—the monster. But I think, if I can only sleep,
I’ll find a way back to the company of my family. They
have to forgive me, fold me in. Prodigal daughter, kill
the fatted lamb. The image comforts me. But not as much
as knowing I’ve still got a fat stash of ice in my car, safe
inside its lockbox. And I’ve still got Trey, safe in memory.
November Empties
Into December and life
has taken on a certain
rhythm.
Bumpy,
