by Meg Tuite
Still a bit folded, the rheumatic woman, Miriam, uprooted from her chair. A creaking labyrinth of aches charted scars like constellations–framed tragedies cranked through zealous decisions listed on her chalkboard. Be a gimmick, kiss goats, pigs, wander truant amongst needs, languish comfortably inside holes, multi-diagnose chapters, wall in and yet never become plotted.
George, Miriam’s cat, carried death wedged into cells like the full beat of a butterfly on its first and last day. Eighteen years old and comforted by habit flanked by hunger, naps, and feasibility of the hunt.
Miriam’s view narrowed the muted sweep of her room–marveled at the precision of memory wandering her bookshelves–the lives lived within this fugitive fertilization of landscapes.
Meg Tuite is the author of seven story collections and five chapbooks. She is an award-winning author who teaches writing retreats, online classes, and is fiction editor of Bending Genres and associate editor at Narrative Magazine. Find her work at: megtuite.com