by Robert Henry
Privy excavation on the side of Ma’s old lodge. Four legs of metal, barracks housing, left beside
her things and the mobile home. What we said by the chain fence. Where she insisted on plowing the plumber instead of getting rid of the outhouse. Where, instead, we loitered like car dice swinging by her expletives: dead-end Johns. Where we swore to hush, moving out to the city and bearing two pounds of grit on our bodies like we couldn’t not stink of cinders. Like the body infallible in peat, last mentions, toe-curls, debt collections, still bobbing. The house. She does.
Robert Henry is a college student studying English & computer science. He serves as the Editor-in-Chief of his school’s news and literary magazines, and is especially fond of liminal catwalks.
This piece was selected as a runner up of our ‘Lies’ writing competition.
diceroll press 