AnniversaryLast night I woke up and bumped into your death in the dark. I can't blame it, exactly, I've been unkind, bound the thing like a roast with butcher's twine, and left it to rattle in the lockbox beneath the bed. It had grown lonely, it had resorted to attention-seeking behavior. It crouched beneath my keys to pounce as I left the house— and often, it coaxed the telephone to ring out, to shake off hard-won silence with all the stupid enthusiasm of a wet dog. Your death misses the assuasive days of the short leash, misses the nights I seduced it to play on loop until we both collapsed into sleep. It's barbarous—I tell your death— this mounting infidelity, and there is no word yet for the kind of shame that twins my breath to every moment that you do not breathe. Cate McLaughlin graduated with an MFA from Syracuse University where she also currently teaches composition. Her recent publications include The Common, the minnesota review, and Cutbank. |