Anatomy of a Dress

Proposal

Now, while radios crackle my latest victims’ names and the colors their blood made on the sidewalk — cabernet, eggplant, mud — say yes. In the middle of the list. Would you be more comfortable strolling out behind the slaughterhouse? Shall we take another stumble through the burn ward? Here’s a note from my parole board and a snapshot of my Dumpster. Here’s a list of my prescriptions in order of importance. Now while tornadoes screw the city, now half-drowned in sobs, now as I tear our last dollar to confetti. Toss off your drink and dress. Look at me. Say yes.

Wedding

My sisters Mary and Martha taught me to dance like a ladder while my mother sang a song called Sell Me Money. My mother will come back in the end. Martha lacquered her face with strawberry jam; Mary unfolded the towels. When I regained self-consciousness they were pushing me down the corridor like a stalled car and I’d gone wrong in my pants. I wanted to nail the apples back onto the tree but couldn’t find a hammer. I chopped out my mouth but nights I still hear it, down at the dump, telling dirty stories to eggshells. My mother.

Joel Brouwer