The Source

I eat on the porch swing, a rotten sky above. There he is, droning in the kitchen as mother clutches the staticky volume in one hand and pounds dough with the other. My baby sister plays in the fireside touch of my father's uncertain company.

Here I am, silent in the past, tasting the French nutcracker of my dreams. I hold my boyfriend's smile. It holds my thoughts. And my thoughts hold the embrace of a Prodigal Father. 

But they can't shield me from the burnt cider that slapped my adolescence. I choke on the lie of life. Jilted and ashamed, I see it name its price: me. 

My stilettos snapped. Their glitter, a ghost. My remains drip to a southern clot. 

It's 3:00 and children come off the school bus with atrocious posture. They pick up their pace as the nervous sun bows its face to me. "Why me?" you ask.

"Why me?" I ask. 

FDR speaks on the scratchy radio again and again. He sees me in my misshapen corduroys and overgrown toenails, hopeless, and I realize that I'm the flaw, the lord of melancholy thoughts. Mother still listens to the radio so I ask her, "Why?" 

She tells me, "There's a chance," and I feel the shame in doubt.