Photo by Pedram Mousapoor on Unsplash
by Karen Crawford
Make believe we poison Mr. White today.
Make believe we fix Mr. White a drink with a splash of Listerine because, well, you know… and
it doesn’t slip from his fingers like many things about him slip.
Make believe he doesn’t swear to God, swear at us, swear at Mami.
Make believe Mami isn’t on her hands and knees cleaning it up, hair pulled back tight, cheekbones trying to survive.
Make believe Mami isn’t Mr. White’s housekeeper, that he doesn’t rub her shoulders with his slippery fingers until they slip inside her blouse, that she doesn’t flinch again and again, that our bodies don’t tremble, and our eyes don’t tear. Make believe Mami asks us to slip Mr. White another drink, believe we reach for the Listerine tucked behind the Bacardi.
Karen Crawford lives and writes in the City of Angels, exorcising demons one word at a time. Find her on Bluesky @karenc.bsky.social and X @KarenCrawford_
