A VERY SMALL DEATH - kira clark

I do not sleep. I lie in the night trying to hear a baby shrieking, an exploding howl leaking from its pink skin like some bird.

I wonder Did I swallow it? Did I eat my baby all wrong? Did my fork aim incorrectly, miss the peas, stab flesh instead?

Oh, my throat. My throat is sticky with much spit. I can feel it at night the most, when the stillness of my throat is submerged and resting in saliva. How many baby throats I could fit inside my large throat!

The husband, he has bulbous eyes on his face skin that close when he sleeps like well like a baby.

I was not raised on a farm with grandparents and babies but I remember it that way. I remember babies in the grass crawling up up up me. I remember my skin being soft and hot and my skin it woke open and ready.

There is a tear on my belly where they carved it out of me. My eggs have froth like sea foam.

The husband, he drinks tea while I swirl around, locating the missing hands.

Kira Clark
Blake Butler