The rain holds the cigarette smoke in the room. I try to wave it away
with my hands, push it out the open window.
It will not leave. I will not stop smoking and waving my hands. My
guests are embarrassed.
They tell me:
women don't shatter the bowls of public toilets by throwing hand
weights at them.
women don't crack sternums with ringed punches.
I say, the
commonality is the cracking. The shattering.
women don't draw maps to help their father out of the garage.
I nod to myself, still smoking. The map was perfectly good. Expertly
The guests don't know what to say. They take notes, show me.
on her eye socket, unspoken source.
I reach up, rub the socket. It is sore.
Kate Wyer lives in Baltimore. She has stories in or coming from Unsaid, Birkensnake, The Collagist, PANK and others.
Detail of photo on main page courtesy
of Craig A. Rodway.
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