Spring 2017 – Vol. 6
by Christos Kalli


So what if you were made and named after the laughter

of a man who found a joke inside your sister’s mother’s

throat. When you knelt to melt one more apparition


out of broken glass with your bare hands. When the words

he slapped out of your lips were barely out of reach. When

you rescued the letter p and almost made it into a please


you were the all-yes-girl once, the all-yes-girl-dressed-pink

when you were promised a knight but instead were given

a night-full of darkened HA HA HAs. The joke begun


with the crushed-ice-scotch-breath exhaled onto your

clenched teeth and see-through dress. I can still see

through you, through this window we call memory


that is now dusted by the pastel dirt. 2 a.m. news mumbling

yet again about a pregnant girl raped by three men walking

into a bar. You laugh. You know the joke. You can recite


the joke as good as you can recite your ABCs because 

the joke’s what made you you. Like when the potter wets 

his hands before attempting to give clay a shape, a mouth,


two hands, you were silhouetted by moisture pressed

on skin. What did the clay say to the palms? How many  

glazes does it take to cover the body’s hairline cracks?