Bill Alton

I have no shoes. There are no words for my mouth. There are no words to make things not happen.

My dad’s knuckles are little stones. Blood tastes like blood. Pain is not bright.

Mom says, You’re not doing this.

Today Mom’s strong. Today she’s fierce.

The first shot takes me in the eyes. I can’t see.

Now the nose.

The chest. The belly. The eye again.

I wing a flat, jagged rock at him. It flies like a Frisbee. Bone flashes. Dad bleeds.

That’s enough of that.

He tries to push past to the bathroom.

Mom says, I told you not to.

She has a knife.

I think it’s time you left.

This one’s early. Leaving tomorrow to go camping. Enjoy.

A Series of Poor Choices

You buy her lunch because you don’t want her to walk away. You want to watch her chew and talk with her mouthful. You want to see the way her nostrils flare when she bites a sandwich. You want all of these things so you buy her lunch and you’re scared she’s going to walk away so you go for it. You lunge across the table and land your lips on her chin right before she plants her knuckles in your ear. You fall and people stare and she leaves. She’s gone. Amazing. No blood. Maybe that comes later when you apologize.