Enola Gay

The cottage in the dark had no lights on. No doorway at all. Just a flat roof and tilting walls. That were struggling to hold up something no longer there.

It had many bright light bulbs in all the lamps. Only no switches with which to turn them on. Just as every woman begins. And every man eventually ends.

I took the stairs to the basement. Determined to find the guilty fuse. I played hopscotch on bed. Convinced my pebble knew it was leading me somewhere. Like an octopus with all its arms lopped off. Pointing at something.

The valentine on my doorstep flirted with the snow. Dirty panties too close to the fireplace. Gone again.

Waiting for the witch. To offer her poisoned apple. Looking forward to that first bite.

It's only dark because the windows are covered. It's only lonely because the doorknob is missing.

The dark cottage. Has taken off its clothes. A ripe dystopia in the lushness of new fables. The doorway is obvious when I don't look for it. When in confessions. Sleeping infants with bloody assholes. Try not to remember.

The more I worship the wolf, the better I understand his decision. To devour the pigs.

She was cold. Wearing nothing. As well as she wore it. Like a bomb around her neck. Always wanting to explode, but so inept at the math.