by Leah Mueller Strip from bone and evaporate to wherever the dried blood goes. Memories seethe: your abrupt assault, your terrified love. Bulbous digits, teeth in a sawdust box embossed with an Indian’s head. Wishbone and sage. You always said I talked too much, though my voice never reached very far. I pretend you were kind, pretend you wanted our Read More
Tag: leah mueller
Lament
City elephants never lament. We gave it up when we moved off the savanna. For one thing, city code discourages open-air burials. And everything needs a permit, even public displays of mourning. It makes sense. Can you imagine if we did it the old way? Traffic remains snarled near Columbus Circle while fifteen pachyderms continue their vigil for a herd member who Read More
At the Memorial
by Leah Mueller Afraid to weep, my son carries his father’s ashes in a cardboard box. As water roils in the distance, he steps inside a crater filled with loose gravel, twists his ankle, crumples to the ground. We stand above, hands outstretched while he tosses in agony on the asphalt. On the shore, beachcombers climb dead tree branches, pick Read More