coleslaw

the violence had gotten obscene. So we did what we always would; we went shopping. Arkansas in the summer is akin to resting upon the face of the sun, so atop the 64 Lincoln’s sub-mental idea of air conditioning my mom opened the windows. We took in the swamp air, and filled the cabin with the odor of good dope and silliness.

The grocery store was a cavalcade of choice. I put boxes of sweet corn sugar cereal into the pit that I had no intention of eating.

When full, we attempted to put our time in against the check out counter. In her usual rage, my mom had no time to stand. The idiocy of attending was too much for her.

We ducked the line, rolled the cart out of the store, and filled the cavernous trunk with our ill-gotten booty.

As the road rolled under out magnificent wheels, she took the time away from her fuming cigarette to put her long, thin fingers over mine and tell me “I love you”.

They say narcissists have no capacity for love.

I would tell them

Try it.

J. Fisher has been working and publishing for the last 20 years under a host of noms de plume. In that time they have had works circulating from Balzac to Berlin. They have published 3 formal poetry collections on the Frontenac House label (Death Day Erection, bulletin from the low-light, and iii).