Christopher M Drew
The end came quick, with a trip and a fall and a crack of the skull, and with his final breath he called out for his mother, who in turn sang to him, her voice clear and bright through the void of his despair, lifting him gently away.
we’d cut school and crowd the narrow bridge over the railroad, all of us together
My husband came home with a goldfish. He filled a glass bowl from the tap and stayed with the fish all night.
The bell rings as the door opens. A woman enters and removes a headscarf. The barber straightens a photograph on the wall and turns.
The second thing I see after pulling the bedroom blind is my wife’s handprint on the casement window. The first thing I see is an alligator in the pool.
I'm about to climb up into the goddamn freezer when a guy in a faded suit jacket leans over and grabs the last tub of Americone Dream from the top shelf.
When you died, the doctor pushed his spectacles up the narrow bridge of his nose and split me in two.
Let’s say you don’t stay up drinking until after midnight. That you don’t sleep through the alarm. That you’re not so late for the job interview that you call the receptionist and beg her to reschedule your appointment.
You stand naked in front of the mirror and see her image in your reflection. Long hair. Dark skin stretched over your hips. A hole like a cigarette burn in the middle of your chest.
My mother disappeared piece by piece, like the moon peeled away by the curved blade of its shadow. I no longer remember her eyes, her smile, her hands. Now, I only remember the dance.
We lie on our backs on the rooftop, hands open like shields toward the sun. Our parted fingers cast striped shadows across our faces, iron-black bars covering our eyes and mouths.
—come back to the village, we should get together. We’ll unwind, rewind. Loop the time between then and now. Forget it ever happened. I’ll cut us out like paper dolls, let the world burn.