No Poem Is the Only Poem. No Story Is the Only Story. Celebrating Diversity Since 2015
Sweat rolled down Gabriel’s face. Through the sights of the launcher, he stared at the animal for the very first time, like a groom finally seeing his bride on the wedding day. The sun had burnt us all in the past few weeks, but Gabriel’s face had drained of color. His index finger flirted with the trigger.
Every night, I turn into a wolf’s mistress. On our paws, we pounce together into a meadow. Gorging on rain-stained grass, we howl at those who call us mad. We howl for them.
I try not to cry so often. I do get angry because when everyone else is out freezing their butts on icy metal bleachers at the football game, I am here scrubbing your blue wax mess off the wall. I am washing food out of your hair while my peers go to parties. I imagine their sleek, pressed ponytails and laid edges and I cannot remember the last time I did my hair instead of yours. I have more gray hairs than I have friends. I cook dinner that you will not eat because I forgot you don’t eat anything red...
Hiking was Tom’s hobby. She texted him a photo of snow-coated mountain tops from her seat in the plane with the caption, “guess where I am?” Tom never responded. She still stares at that message, waiting.
“I mean, we’re not that close now, but he’s the guy who will take me to the hospital at the end of my life when I’m dying. I married him for that. For the end. And, of course, for the children. He’ll be the one to take me when I need chemo.”
“Do you have cancer?” I asked.
“Not yet,” she said.
My son pauses the game to say, “One time the wind was blowing so hard
you could even see it. It was gray, and it pushed against you when you walked.”