Chee Brossy

Issue #
February 18, 2013

Carson City, 1957

Pale yellow walls  trellis around  the sink mirror  she eases the door closed slumps to the

tiled  floor.  Breathe  breathe  breathe  the  children  are  out  there  playing  and  yelling.

Crying pricked by the tacks  holding the carpet to the  kitchen floor her shoulder against

the  door.  The  asphalt  cicada  din  presses  around  her too  large  mountains  bursting

highway  heaving up  neighbors  waving  in the  sun with smiles chiseled into their faces

their  eyebrows  sewn on  with  a broken  machine.  Their  clothes are  so flowered socks

blue  topstitching on a  man’s  trousers  but she  can’t  see their  heads for  the glare. She

blinks  the sun jumps overhead  here the mountains on  top of her eyes the  cactus burst

from the cracked  ground.  Water water water.  The cars snake tracks in the dirt the vinyl

interior  inflates  grows presses  into her  face.  The felt  tacking  on the roof  sags wraps

around  her tongue.  Who will save  her at the house.  The man  at work going  deaf in a

blue hole  jack hammer for a new bank  casino shopping warehouse. Brings the machine

wail  home  in  his  mouth.   No.   The  children  cry  heaving  wailing  sobs  her  face  is

crumbling. Catches it in the trellis mirror the lines around her mouth red brick blind she

was a  majorette once.  The wall  lists to the right  lists lists  until the ceiling flips. Say it.

The  walls  swallow.   Say  it.   Citrus  smell  of  shiver  and  sweat.   She  came  over  the

mountain  singing  sing  sing  sing  she wraps  her arms around  herself tucks  her dress

under.  She looked  out over  the prairie dogs the crying  prairie dogs the wind  bending

the yucca fruit low.

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