Priorities
Mother glares at me, an angry wasp, abdomen curled, stinger ready. She’s waiting on her dinner and bath. I quickly ease her into the tub. Afterwards, I set down a meal of fried chicken and salad. She hardly touches anything, telling me she’s cold. I touch her puffy cheek, it’s odd that she is so cool on such a hot day. But my thoughts are with him, his fingers shoving a sticky piece of watermelon into my mouth. I bite down carefully, sucking the ruby-colored juice off his thumb. I need to leave quickly; I kiss her on the top of the head–It’s morning, and I see my Mother’s body lying on one side, between the kitchen and mudroom, glasses broken, and tiny streams of blood from her nose trail down the marionette lines around her mouth–At least I got my fucking frolic in the watermelon patch.
Spector
They stand staring at a third story window of the courthouse. You can see the image on a sunny day, late in the afternoon. It looks like the kind of thing a child would draw on a frosted windowpane–just an oblong circle with eyes, nose, and a rigid mouth. The next day, there are sloping lines like shoulders and spots down the chest like buttons. The day after, a small square appears, looking like a belt buckle, along with the top of trousers. The following morning, a man stands back from the window, walks toward the landing and down the stairs to the bottom floor back door. He makes his way across fifth street to Ed’s Grill for scrambled eggs, then down the hill to the farmer’s market, the girl who bags his apples stares at the circular scar on his neck and the number on his denim shirt.
F.D. Jackson lives in the southeastern U.S., along with her husband and sundry furry family members. When she is not writing or reading, she can be found wandering the Gulf Coast with a cold drink in her hand. F.D. has work published in Book of Matches and Poetry Breakfast, with work forthcoming in Plum Tree Tavern and Feral.
