Monday, May 19, 2014

I Can't Spell Poetry with a Capital P

Because when a body’s worth of coagulated blood is scooped
off a kitchen floor, it jiggles in the shovel. Because my parents

fed nine children on all the overtime Dad could get and an ad
in the yellow pages calling themselves a cleaning service. Because

when the phone rang at 4 a.m. that Saturday morning, they answered it,
filled a thermos with coffee, and drove off in the station wagon.

Because sometimes people use shotguns in their kitchens at midnight
against their own worst enemies. Because when my parents returned

home that afternoon, they smelled of bleach and sweat and needed
new shoes. Because somehow they had known to take a shovel.

Prism Review - Issue 16

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