Leslie hates the way her pantry smells. Of old potatoes, ginger and Campbell’s Tomato Soup. (There’s a puncture on the bottom of the can; its contents drip lazily onto the shelf.) "Mama, I’m hungry." "You think I’m your slave? You’ve got eyes." Dark and warm and musty. Like a cardboard box that’s been left in the attic. (Where she’s afraid to go.) And stale. The Lucky Charms have been stale for weeks. "Can we go to the store, Daddy?" "Shh. I’m watchin’ my program." Drip. Drip. The tomato soup runs down the top shelf and onto the second shelf, where it lands in Lucky’s eye. Drip. Drip. Leslie accidentally imagines that it’s blood and screams. "Leslie!" "What the fuck’s the matter with you?" "Nothing. Sorry, Daddy." But Lucky is drowning. The pool of blood in his eye opens up like an origami crane and devours his entire head. The red and green mix together and make brown. (She learned that in art class.) Then, the scarlet crane opens wider, a great, red sun, and brings Lucky beneath the folds of its wings. He disappears. He’s drowning, Daddy. He’s drowning, Daddy. "Daddy?" "Hush, all right?" "Could ya shut the little shit up?" "Daddy’s watching his program, Leslie." Leslie hates the way her pantry smells. Of old potatoes, ginger and Campbell’s Tomato Soup. (There’s a puncture on the bottom of the can; its contents drip lazily onto the shelf and into Lucky’s eye.) Drip. Drip.
Reason for writing:
Inspired by a few Moms & Dads I know. ("Leslie" doesn't actually exist -- she's the combination of several people.) The poem's packed with symbolism, so if you're curious, just ask.
Birth sign: Virgo
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