by Christine Tierney
that was the spring she’d decided. a plan unraveled from inside her. she tricked all the mirrors. nicked them with kitchen knives. made parts of her pay. she came close to lopping. grabbed fistfuls of droopy hip and just squeezed. there was so much shoveled in that begged to come out. it wasn’t supposed to last. but what starts out as seed, (even sickly, spongesoppy seed) blooms. it got so bad that the knives rebelled and dulled. she was forced to use her teeth, even the yuckmucky rotten ones. teeth against glass? but when her teeth were all gone, paired down to grim nubs, she plucked out the bones in her sore and sorry mouth. one by one she washed off the ticks of meat and dark moussey cake. dried them by the mushrooming fire. she spent more than a fortnight sharpening her bones into stickpins shaped like her anger. it was fun. it was yummy fun. then one afternoon, when the dastardly world was at work, she jabbed each and every one those bones into her fatty, fatty heart.