The Meadow Annual Literary Arts Journal 2022

The Meadow 167 Cutter Gina Stratos When my youngest daughter cut her arms into fleshy ribbons, I watched her damp teeth move, her mouth a cave echoing every motherly failure every single tenderness left on the table to rot In her bedroom, I rummage through drawers, too late, they say remove every knife, rusted razor, colorful sewing pins, their bright heads a kind of circus laughter, a child-like lie I contemplate pulling every tack from her walls decorated with blue art, bulging eyes, but still, the smell of her sandalwood hair lingers as a promise unfulfilled She would laugh if I called it a prayer That’s my fault, too Can she hurt herself with cardboard? Can she open a vein with tweezers? Where do I store my kitchen knives? Oh, my heart, what have we done?

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