A pair of moth wings flutter across the baseboard. There’s dried vomit on the floor from the dog choking on his fur. He’s dead now. Outside the kitchen window a child plays house with a tattered voodoo doll.
You can’t take back something you never said, i whisper to the rotten meat on my plate. The table is full of it, but only my side grew ears. i smell mold but can’t see it. It all looks the same anyway.
Are we really going to talk about this right now? You carve sausage with a dirty knife, scrape the dust off with soiled fingers. You just buried the dog. You buried more than the dog. You slam down your fork.
i turn the volume up, escape and let the child fill the space-- she stabs the doll with a pin, laughs, dances on top of a soft grave.
-- Bianca Apato is a recent graduate of Lewis University where she earned her BA in English and Secondary Education. Upon graduation, Bianca became a Flight Attendant for a major U.S. Airline and now writes most of her poetry at 35,000 ft. She currently resides in Denver, Colorado and spends most of her time on the ground at local coffee shops and bookstores.