SERGEANT HOGG
Sergeant Hogg squealed. Squealed like she did on Halloween, when she’d give out fat pieces of chalk to kids because she knew the real treat was her 4 a.m. wake-up call. Bang. Bang. Bang. Hammering a baseball bat into the utility pole, one bang for each veteran that took their own life. Sergeant Hogg played the bongos and got into fights with punks and moms and cops. Once while walking home from school, she called me over from her rotted porch. “Jump in that leaf pile.” She pointed to the end of her yard. She went back inside and I jumped. Jumped like I was a soldier following orders. When I landed I felt something scruff my arm: two solid cinder blocks hidden beneath the reds and yellows and browns of the leaves. Right where my head should have been. I looked up and saw Sergeant Hogg, her snout pressed against her window, watching me. Her small eyes bulged, and before she turned away I got a glimpse of her hand. Her fingers were crossed. Hoping.
White Bucket, Brown Rabbit
Like burrowing ants, her cramps eat away at her insides. So close to home with only a few fast food napkins to stop her flow.
She opens the front door, and is met by her mother bearing a shovel. Go get that dead rabbit out there. ‘Fore there’s a mess.
Mother shoves a white bucket at her and rubber gloves. I just want to be home. You are home, her mother snaps and shuts the door.
She can feel herself now bleeding through her jeans. The rabbit is stiff when she scoops it into the bucket; one bone sticks from its neck.
She finds a place for the rabbit. Behind the Altoona Baptist Church, in the woods. You are home, she whispers and cries in anger.
Around the Tongue with Silk
Dr. Doctor works with stretch velvet on Mondays and lace on Tuesdays. Wednesdays—terrycloth. Wool if she’s mad at her husband. Today, there’s a big bag of red silk on her lap and I know that when she taps her knitting needles twice our session has started. Get a load of this—yesterday, a boy tried to follow me home. You didn’t get his number? No. No, he asked me too many questions. That’s a shame.
Her chunky glasses slip to the tip of her nose when she looks at me. Stand up, she says, and spin around. I’ve never been a model before. You’re the same size as my daughter. Same shape, too. She drapes the fabric over my shoulders, wraps it around my neck. You know, that boy—Hush now. You mustn’t talk while I work.
The silk gets tight, thick, sticky. I wanna sit back down, she’s got her measurements. Needles tap, and please, no breathing. She pries my mouth open, pours the silk ‘round my tongue, flosses it in between my teeth. I hold my breath until I am sick and everything gets soft. Until I am nothing but raw, red, wet silk.
FROGMAN
Frogman taught us Melville and Douglass. Frogman croaked. No one understood him. Something about that liars “bleed stink” and mobsters “face your ears.” Frogman was cruel. I liked that about him. Reminded me of a kid I used to know who would throw rocks at my head. Smooth rocks because he liked me. Frogman knew how to spit. His fat tongue bruised the inside of his mouth and the inside of my brain. I liked that tongue. Last day I saw Frogman, I blew him a kiss and his tongue leapt out to me, trying to catch it.