by Lucy Rahayiroyi
Visual by James Hirsch
she wonders if I will go to college
because people like me usually don’t.
The indignation curls up in my throat;
it threatens to come out in tufts of smoke.
But I repress
for the sake of co-Christianity.
she maneuvers her bulky vehicle by the side of our house
and drops off a physical representation
of Stuff, etc.
She wants to see us tear through the plastic
garbage bag like rats scavenging for scraps.
She slinks off like a predator.
Later, she states:
from the looks of it, your brother
will grow up to be a good-for-nothing degenerate.
She smiles proudly at her own son.
She chooses to identify with my mother,
hinting that we should appreciate her
because we don’t know
the struggles of single-motherhood.
A thought flies to my mind:
The thousand injuries of Fortunato I had borne,
but when he ventured upon insult I vowed revenge.
I would rather be an animalistic animist
with no moralistic impediment.
Instead, I tell her:
But black lips should have no backlash;
they should always stay grateful.
Italicized text from “The Cask of Amontillado” by Edgar Allan Poe, 1846