Her head bobbed up and down in the sea. Salt water splashing in her mouth. She was shiny and orange. Tethered to some unknown place down below.
Cold. Dark. Seaweed clinging, being dragged – dragging – rusted chain links – heavy-duty – covered in barnacles.
Anemones on pilings the size of your calf. Cauliflower ringworms suctioned tight to dock pilings.
A kid turns sixteen. He doesn’t notice.
Alone, she spits words – an attempt to untether or string more strongly –
bacon grease splatters on the stovetop.
Fake butter they call Earth Balance covers the bread and coats the tongue in a superficial, distinct taste. It is somehow the first and last thing you taste.
I’m here for you – but where are you?
You aren’t here for me. My chosen family, my supernaturals, they are here.
A bath. With bubbles. Rosé.
An open window. Birds.
A squirrel’s tail twitches skyward shortly after being struck by a truck. This is where I died – sideways – facing traffic – on the shoulder.
If I’m lucky, the scavengers will scavenge me. Pluck me off the pavement ligament by ligament – a muscle scrap here and there.
Melusine knows of death – of when death comes – I did know of the moment my Dad knew he was going to die – as evidenced by the single tear he shed while being wheeled in his hospital bed to get an MRI or CT scan – that image is so vivid to me – I don’t believe anyone else saw it – I don’t believe he knew I saw it.
My stepdad came after. He passed while I was away – but again – I knew.
where rivers are born 