Aurora Magazine 2017

1/2.

Second Daughter broken like a cold bottle of Campari swung against a tree. Label holding the shards of the bottle together like hope. Lamed, put down, harvested like cotton, ashes in a box. Carted from New Mexico, to Texas, to Arizona. (Two go rounds! Half-Ton Roulette! You’re Dead!) Glowing Senior picture, every rule followed, effort made, like the wreathe of Santa Lucia on during the Third Sunday in Advent. Up on the same screen she and First Daughter were taught that their vaginas were like chewing gum, seat belts prevented obituaries, and Honor Role Students change the world. (Therefore we mourn the feast.) Cake make-up left on lapels by the Owl Ladies who by reflex engage in compassionate gossip. By the time they were through First Daughter smelled like the scent of retrospective a Avon catalogue, BBQ sauce, and condolences. Every awkward hug felt like iodized pity, every leaking eye suspect, roaming like steers in a catch pen gym. (Have you had enough peach cobbler?)

(Hallelujah! Hallelujah? Raise and Bury Thee! O Honky Tonk Banshee!)

(Amen.)

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