Skeletons Warming Themselves
We are the most beautiful dead women ever written. It has been a hundred years and our nails are still growing. The domestic dramas killed us. We never made it to paperback. Our faces favor Marilyn and the writers’ own wives. Sealed off in a ranch house in Plantation Springs, we finger the drapes to remember flesh. Spiders weave silk where thieves stole dimes, deep in the blank sockets of our eyes. We wear tall wigs made of moths, hands paused in the stove fire of our furniture. The dinette set. The Chambers Range. We burn books and the perfect victims that stole our memory. Each scream was a sex act. In a sunken den where the novel ends, one head holds up another. The cats still walk their mice at dusk. Groceries long rotten in the Frigidaire. At night we host an off-book burial, our bones chalking the carpet where we make love. We expect no guests and still we strap on. This must be what it meant to be witches. We know no men. Are we still women?
Sara Kachelman has studied fiction at the University of the South and the University of Amsterdam. Her work has appeared in DIAGRAM, Portland Review, and Your Impossible Voice. She lives in Portland, Oregon.
Cover Photo by zaphad1