Fall 2017 (Volume 21, Issue I)




In the morning I choose the perfect color. Some days I love olive, some days, not. This is important because I know I won’t have a say in my burial outfit. Someone will decide black leather isn’t appropriate, or a silver puffer looks too much like a spacesuit in a coffin, so I can’t worry about that. But I can pick what I’ll be found in. You have to make the decisions you can. I used to carry copies of my book in the car, carpooled them around like bundled children, until I realized there was no place to drop them off. No one was waiting for them to burst through a door, take off their coats, stay awhile. I bought a white wool coat because a snowy owl whispered om before she left me with no luck, a little bourbon and a horseshoe-shaped hole, which was also the shape of my high school. Since then, everyone leaks out the open end and I’m stuck with the stains — grass, lipstick, rings on the nightstand and saliva-dabbed smudges of wine and blood — which so ruin a snow-white coat, which otherwise would be perfect to wear on a dying day, or any other day I can imagine they’d find me.

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