A Mischief by Jennifer Natalya Fink
I. Every time I see you I bleed. Not the optimistic red of love newly born. More oil spill. Menstrual cramp. Black porridge.
I. Every time I see you I bleed. Not the optimistic red of love newly born. More oil spill. Menstrual cramp. Black porridge.
A cave-in one county over keeps me up. The late news has live cameras at the entrance where men come out, coughing up clouds of dust that shroud their faces and shimmer in the stark light of the video cameras.
You greet me with an accumulation of slaps, thin broken red line: we both want this. There’s no con and no man.
I am lonely, so lonely that I go to the store to buy lemonade and when l see you at the register I say, hubba hubba, sweet lady, and you say [shriek]. This isn’t helping at all, this whole, other people thing.
Steven John interviews Meg Pokrass, Founding Co-Editor (with Gary Fincke) of the Best Microfiction series about the anthology