Posted by & filed under eggs past.

Laura Madeline Wiseman

Ask at her house, when the first incense burns, the first
bottle opens. Don’t wait until it’s the third or fourth,
when she’s surly and wants to couple in darkness. Ask
when we’re alone in that bedroom, the nightstand light
glows, the TV holds its tongue, candles gutter, air swirls
smoke. Ask when she rages on death, saying, Dead men
don’t bite, or, They’re all dead to me, or She’ll get what
she deserves. Ask when we’re favored, the one trusted
with the story, when she shakes her head, passing to
us her bowl of red jeweled fruit. Ask when she loves us,
would do anything for us, because we’ve been hurt and
have our own dead to mourn, when she says, I will kill
them, and our eyes are puffy and red, breath stuttering
in our chest. If we ask then, we’ll have our books of the
dead. Open them up. Tell what’s inside.