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My grandmother was born on a wooden table, in a dark kitchen, in a blue house, in an apple orchard. When she was seven and complained of a sore throat, the same doctor who birthed her took her tonsils out on that rough-hewn table where she was born, where
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Her eyes were brown. But he wasn’t sure. He looked again: her eyes were blue. Her eyes were blue, and looking straight at him.
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I retrieved the book from the middle of the room and set it in front of her. "Look," I said. "If we open the book up again at the beginning, Charlotte's alive. She'll always be alive in the book."
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“What can I do for you?” he asks Dan, who then rolls up his shirt sleeve to reveal a list of names etched into his arm, with lines through them, like a scrawled timetable on a prison wall. The last name on the list is the only one without a strikethrough
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Pull her from the water and check
her pockets. Shouldn’t death tattoo
a message on each palm it removes
the pulse from.
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I think I’ll get a tattoo. Not just any tattoo, one I’ll regret. I’ll catch people peering at it, trying to interpret the twists and swirls of the black ink on my fair skin.
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. The whole place reeks of buttered popcorn, gasoline, grease and B.O. and I don't have much of an appetite.
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