His eyes didn’t smile. Thin lips and ungenerous, intermittent staying in the house and in it. And in it he took off and went places, no one knows. She. Wide hips, all the better to give birth, my dear. She wanted that baby more than anything. Still born with him standing arms at sides, helpless to fix. Only the old trailer truck. Go see Uncle Herman, ease the grief and grow up some. No more lies. He, handsome sputtering liar, new jacket, new name, new lady. Back at the ranch she waited, grief burning a hole in his heart. Made him want to be bad. Stick a knife in the wound. His wound.
p style=”text-align: justify;”>Dancer/choreographer turned abstract painter/writer, Neila Mezynski has fiction and poetry published on Kill Author, Snow Monkey, Word Riot, Dogzplot, Mud Luscious, Scrambler, Rumble among several others.
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