THIS RED TRUCK - sarah rose etter

We pay our rent in slabs of fat. We use peelers, shattered pairs of scissors, the sharp sides against us. Mostly, I cut mine from my breasts. The boys didn’t have much to begin with. We pile the fat on the front porch and wait for the truck to come. There are small smears of us on each other’s skin.

The men pull away with our excess. We go inside bleeding. We move to the same place, go to the same bedroom. We curl around each other, pushing bones and new wounds together, making a low warmth, the only warmth we can afford.

Sarah Rose Etter
Stories for Nighttime and Some for the Day
Ben Loory