1913issue6online

43 “LET’S GET DOWN TO BUSINESS,” I say, throwing down my fork. “You buy the tension rod, I will make some curtains”—meaning, because I am not a seam- stress, “You supply the tension rod, I will house the baby.” My impressive smallness prevents my capture in the window—but your bare ass wants to act as a sundial, and the teeth of your spine worry the neighbors into thinking they are witnessing a crime as they mill around on the pavement, smoking & chat- tering. There is a gas station nearby. My mind is always on the potential explosion & not on whatever you are doing to my clavicle or windpipe. I hunger for fabric like a beetle. I loathe this metabolism & my shell. You are measuring the frame to determine the distance that must be covered as I unveil my new socks: Tada. “Oh these, these belong to my boyfriend,” I say—this after months of begging you to buy tube socks for me to steal & say to myself, “These belong to my boyfriend,” tugging them up to my knees. I keep them on in bed. For days, you wear a lobster bib to match me. But my aversion to shell- fish makes my lips too fat to kiss you & you give up & kiss my cheek repeatedly after shooting me in the thigh with the epi-pen. You grow concerned about the smoldering neighbors, the smoke wafting under the curtains. I breathe deeply like an infant & eat this invisible, reckless man from the legs up. -Jennie Stockdale

1913issue6online

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