in the version of events where the truck kills my dad, i go to his wake
to shake the hands of the many men he’s made rich. what they do not know
is that i am 3 pygmy goats in a blazer and will knock down the urn
with my tail and turn the ashes into hot chocolate. the sheriff cannot fit
his handcuffs around my hooves so i roll around in the remnants
of my father’s charred organs, substitute for charcoal and then roast us
some s’mores. the jury’s hanging from the cross up front but i’m too
busy passing around incense to cut them down. mom’s in the bathroom
with the priest again so i start the sermon myself – bless this feast, sorry pilgrims
but the natives eat first this time – coil hell-ivy around my ankles and call me
lilith if i’ve lied but father kneels before me now, no men, amen.
Katherine Martini is a first-year MFA candidate at Rutgers–Newark who is just trying to prove that there is a difference between a Master’s in Poetry and a degree in Broken Childhood Dreams.