Regrets And Broken Bread
by Jill B. Wilde

The heart attack wasn't swifly brutal. It was a slow, achey bit of granite that stuck to his soul's teeth.

And then he died, and went with his brother. It was too good, for veni veristaetes-- it means the blood always calls.

His harpy wife, tupada, and coy for triquita and dripping with fangs and come for male bitches, called and called and murdered sightlessly.

I paid for it with knives in bellies, my mother's and my daughter's- both.

We wept for our clean new house, and he came to again, in the Los Angeles County morgue- a dirty house if it were ever, and he had to pretend to have slept twelve days at LAX where he still works to win the attentions of his voracious wife. She pretends to be a nun. I am one.


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