FuzzyHoser

The old man at the top of the hill poisoned my dog when I was a child; I was warned not to make accusation. As I grew, his face gnarled; I watched him take on the look of cancer. It taught me early to leave revenge be: evil, like an unloved home, meets its end when left to fall in on itself.

I keep having this dream where the white man isn’t angry the black man entered the white house. When I wake up, the white man has stolen everything. I tell my neighbors but they don’t believe me because he’s a white man wearing a red hat and says he owns a bible. They tell me he is our president and I don’t believe them because I remember voting with my nephew on my hip, his chubby fingers reaching for the ballot while telling myself:                              I’m with her because he’s with me. I keep having this dream, America, and you keep building more doors for white men to enter our houses.

  2016, it’s not funny anymore. Donald J. Trump, president elect:                                         I reject.                                                                                          I reject.                                                                                          I reject. Doesn’t matter, they say. This is a red state, they say. We’re outnumbered by the right kind.                                    I’m the white kind,                                    but not the right kind—                                      a woman & for all they know:                

The screen door swings open. She jumps– off her guard; on edge all evening. This house has no ghosts. Husband’s home. She eyes him coldly, wondering: how much he’ll haunt her.

My sister wishes for a little girl to stand next to her son, to have my eyes & her curiosity. Sometimes I want to see how far my car can go before turning around all because I miss someone or some thing. She says I have hips meant for birthing, which I could take offense to if she were anyone else. If I were anyone else, the idea of being someone’s every morning might be everything. Nothing might be what I’ll grow used to. My sister holds her belly, her son inside, waiting for his life to begin; I look at maps, wondering where I’d feel at home & if I’ll ever learn my way around regrets. She worries about shelter &

I do not need you to pray for me. I am a common woman, prideful & reckless, lust-ridden & forbidden by your kind: those who point to me, wanting to anoint me with all things pure, unsure of my worth until I feign their ways. I am no follower of fire and brimstone; & as your kind says of me: I am too far gone.

Three months is my average; rarely do I last any longer playing the role of lover. I’ve dared myself to resist the urge to leave, but it goes against my truths. When lust-minded hands turn to watchful eyes, I try to decide if it’s worth it to be wanted for more than late hours. Lovers begin to see me as someone to bring home, to occupy their houses. I find the exits too easily.