five stars
when they told me she jumped out the window,
i splattered strawberry jam on toast.
her bones must have shattered like eggshells,
splintering into thin almond slivers,
her limbs rolled and creased into a serviette.
where were you? they ask
these insatiable, uninvited guests of mine,
whisking cigarette smoke into peaks of whipped cream
upon the key lime and lemon meringue tarts.
as i chew, all i can think about is
my mother’s crepe skin peeled back,
her organs macerated into gooey blackberry compote,
topped with buzzing black flies
crawling into her greedy mouth.
are you implying i pushed her?
not at all, they say,
the silver cutlery in their eyes slicing through me,
we just wondered if you could give us any insights
into your mother’s health recently.
she left me more bruised than rotting fruit,
from tumbles down the staircase
and doors slammed on brittle ladyfingers,
but those were just
accidents.
oh, she was perfectly fine.
i don’t understand how this could have happened.
you two must have been close, they say,
and i think about wiping the pity off their faces
because it ruins my appetite.
oh yes, i grin,
my teeth dark with chocolate,
we were inseparable.
well, they say, excusing themselves at last,
we’re so sorry for your loss.
i nod and wonder
if i should serve her alone,
or with platters of smoked gouda and fig,
honeycrisp and brie,
or perhaps pear and camembert?
i prefer a tasteful selection,
but i know it won’t pair well with the casket.
of course, i say,
she’ll be missed.
oh yes, they say,
and from underneath the table
emerges a pair of handcuffs,
breakfast is over.
from rabbit to worm
it claws
at the pit of my sternum
from rabbit to worm.
it burrows tunnels in my bones
from alice to wonderland.
it chews through friendships and
squirms under the attention it craves
from summer solstice to vernal equinox
it crawls through labyrinths of memories
and writhes as it lays rot to years of parasitic ruin
from worm to rabbit
it sinks its teeth into pinpricks of an iris
until i close my eyes and there is simply
nothing.
MELANCHOLIA
i. gather all the pieces of your broken heart. soak in a tub of saltwater taffy tears overnight,
allowing time for the denial to penetrate through the veins of vines. take caution not to let shock
electrify the heart, lest it blacken in irreparable numbness.
ii. keep close watch on the heart. after a few weeks, fuchsia petunias will bloom in the atria, its
leaves furling in the sunlight. petals will fall in the ventricles like peeled bergamot skin, pools of
coagulated blood that will build up in the arteries and scald with anger.
iii. the vines will decay and the petals will shrivel. dispose of them with care. the heart will now
thrash like a breathless fish that has leapt valiantly from the ocean, like a siren whose voice has
been lost in the foaming waves, like a leviathan no longer sunken in evil. soak in fresh tears as
necessary, until the helplessness subsides. the heart will appear as though it has been defeated.
lock it in a chest with a silver filigree padlock and chains. bury it beneath the earth.
iv. sit on a rocking chair on your backyard porch and drink cool lemonade, and close your eyes
when the ground shakes. the heart is beating. it is calling you. answer your phone.
v. the heart is no longer broken, but it will beat a syncopated rhythm. cradle it in your hands like
the first plum of summer. take your hammer and beat iron nails into the valves. it should not
flinch when the metal pierces it, but thump a soft, steady percussion.
vi. it is ready for re-entry. it can start anew. you know what to do.
Angelia D’Souza: Originally from Dublin, California, Angelia D’Souza is a junior double majoring in English and Cultural Anthropology at Creighton University. She is additionally hoping to pursue a certificate in Creative Writing, and has plans to conduct research through the university. Angelia is inspired by religion, nature, death, and philosophy, as well as broader historical issues of race, war, and social justice. She hopes you enjoy her work!