♠  ♥  DM XL  ♦  ♣

 Jeanann Verlee

Prose, macabrely

There is a Dead Bison in Your Bed

You don’t know how you killed it, but you’re sure it was you who did the task. There is no one else in the apartment, except the dog who is old and filled with arthritis. She liked the bison. Wagged her tail when it arrived, licked its hooves, napped against its warm fur. She knows it’s dead now and she is slunk in the farthest corner of the room, avoiding its hot stench. The mattress is bloodsoaked. Though luckily, none has yet spilled to the floor. You sit at the edge and the cool red puddles up around your thighs, like sitting on a sopping pile of swimming towels. Its snout is beginning to dry, you touch it with your index finger. Rub clean its horns, pull its lids down to hide its dark empty eyes. You press your ear to its mouth, hoping for some small promise of breath, though you know this is foolish. Your memory is blank. You cannot find the weapon. Presumably you used a kitchen knife, or the hacksaw you purchased six years ago when you were building a shelf to hold cookbooks. But now, the hacksaw and every one of the knives are missing. Its belly is gashed from groin to throat, it lays face-up like a pup hoping for a tummy rub. You cannot fathom why you’d have done this. It was a kind, clean bison and you are a lover of animals. It cradled you safe at night, bellowing lullabies. It washed your dishes, took the dog for walks, painted your bedroom wall. A good, sweet bison, making you laugh with its silly grunting noises, and nuzzling your neck when you cried. Last you recall, you arrived home late after too much wine. Slipped into bed beside its heaving, matted chest and fell asleep. Now, this. You start worrying how you might dispose of it. Will you have to hack it to small pieces? Heave each leg, its massive head, wrapped in bags, down the incinerator chute? How? (Now that the hacksaw is gone.) You look at its soft, peaceful face, the lifeless pink of its tongue. The cute, pointed ears, still perked as if hearing you arrive at the elevator, keys clinking. Wipe a tear as you recall yesterday afternoon. How you rattled off some flimsy excuse that you were unable to go picnic in the park. How you already had plans, and shouldn’t be seen in the park with a bison anyway. How Animal Control might come. How you might get arrested. How people would stare. You should just go it alone, you said, enjoy the sun. Eat up all those yummy peanut butter sandwiches you made for us. It’ll be nice, you explained. You can watch the kids playing hopscotch or run with all the dogs. Then, how you tasseled the fur on top of its head, planted a quick peck on its cheek, and slipped out the door, saying, I’ll be home later, love. How you wouldn’t even look it in the eyes.

...and Poems

I never believed in voices. Ian’s mad.

Thought it was Psychology’s answer

to the inexplicable experience of schizophrenics.

Eva resents you. I’ve read detail of the way such voices

communicate to the sufferer. Paul will never

forgive you. Nate doesn’t believe you. I understood

the tortured mind hears voices audibly. In the way

one hears noises at night: beams and bits of dust

settling in a quiet room. William’s lying. Maggie thinks

you’re a coward. Your father will be disgusted.

You are disgusting. Everyone thinks you’re disgusting.

The audible way wind taps at windows, or unseen animals

rustle leaves in the dark: sound. He left because you’re pathetic.

Because you’re ugly. You’re ugly. You’re fat. You’re old.

Look at your hair. Your teeth are rotting. Your gums are receding.

You’ll never be pretty. You’ll never have children. You’ll never

be worthy. I deemed such voices came as different individuals,

each with its own distinct personality. Brian’s lying.

Your mother isn’t speaking to you. Call your mother. Each voice emerging

with its own pitch, timbre, gender, ethnicity. The team hates your work.

They’re laughing at you. The committee wants you to resign.

The committee doesn’t believe you. Your father doesn’t

believe you. No one believes you. The common inference

is that during a psychotic break, an increasing number

of these distinct voices begin communicating Mike is dead.

to the sufferer at an ever-quickening speed Linda is angry. wherein

the sound grows so loud and the information so overbearing,

the sufferer Your mother hates you. can no longer connect with tangible,

real-world senses. It’s over. You failed. It’s happening. Bill wants you fired.

Marc thinks you’re a liar. Everyone knows. They think you’re a coward.

Coward. You’re pathetic. You should die. Further, it is understood

that during such a break the culminating voices

become threatening and violent in nature. Everyone knows.

Alan thinks you’re lazy. Wes hates you. Fuck you.

They think you’re a fraud. The receptionist is listening.

Mallory thinks you’re weak. Call her. No. You are a bad person.

Your dog is dying because you are a bad person. Nobody likes you.

Everyone is lying. They think you’re a hack. You bitch. This is it.

You are gone. There’s no going back. They’re watching. You slut.

Look what you’ve done. You ruined everything. You’re okay.

You should die. You’re okay. You’re okay. Whore. You’re okay.

Useless cunt. You’re okay. You’re okay. You’re okay. You’re

okay. You’re okay. Die. You’re okay. You’re okay. You’re okay.

[Scream.] You’re okay. You’re okay. It was my understanding that voices

come audible as laughter, as coins dropped to the floor, a dog’s bark.

I understood that when my time came, I would hear voices.

The Thorn

I imagine him without arms.

Unable to play guitar, comb his good hair.

No more basketball. No boxing.

No macaroni and cheese, no risotto.

Forget ice cream cones, catsup-dipped French fries.

He no longer hugs his mother, or high-fives his nephews.

Cannot masturbate. I imagine his arms

on the floor. The beautiful shoulder tattoo

ripped like a shred of cloth, the nail-bitten fingers

twitching like hatchlings in a nest. His honed muscles,

deflating balloons. I imagine inside him, a thorn.

Wedged in his left lung. An unforgiving itch.

He gives it my name.

The Birthday Party

I twisted crepe paper across the walls in the girls’ room.

Strung balloons in a row up the banister.

Stuffed polka-dotted gift bags with candy necklaces,

ring pops, neon glo-bracelets. Added blow-bubbles,

baseball cards, and figurines of both Piglet and Winnie-the-Pooh.

I made fruit punch, and put out soy milk (for Harold’s sensitive tummy).

I baked peanut butter cookies (your favorite) by Mallory's request,

and chocolate cake—Kimberly helped with the icing!

Suzie wanted popcorn and little Connor asked for Cheetos.

A bowlful of gummy worms for the twins, (they eat just like their Dad).

We’ll play Twister and charades, and Chinese checkers –

except for Samantha and Jared who want to play chess.

Later, I’ll put on your mother’s Motown records for dancing.

Caroline’s wearing her tap shoes, Isobel’s in a tutu, and Marcus

worked out a whole routine to Papa was a Rolling Stone.

Don’t be startled, dear. Our children were born this morning—

extracted with tweezers, one by one. Left the bathroom a bit of a mess.

Blood all over the shower curtain, ovaries clogging the drain.

My fallopian tubes kept falling out, so I used your brother’s welding rod

to cauterize. Accidentally melted the bottles of cream by the sink,

the paint off the back of the door, and ignited a bottle of Drano.

Still, I think the party will be a delight. The children are giddy.

Unfortunately, darling, everyone agreed: you are not invited.