When he wakes up she’s there: the girl who always gets it in this
story, sprawled on the bed or floor in an incriminating manner.
Clothing torn, scarlet nails, blue lips. Someone must have arranged
his hand around the smooth knob of this icepick, someone splashed
this whiskey all over his suit, someone called the cops. Sirens
approach, there’s barely time to stagger off, clutching his head, not
forgetting his hat. So long, Sis. He’ll think of her death as a bad thing
that happened to him. His narrow escape.
Martha McCollough is a writer living in Amherst, Massachusetts. She has an MFA in painting from Pratt Institute. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in The Bear Review, Tammy, Pangyrus, Barrelhouse, Crab Creek Review, and Salamander, among others. Her chapbook, Grandmother Mountain was published by Blue Lyra Press. Martha's poetry collection, Wolf Hat Iron Shoes, is published Lily Poetry Review Books.