Parents Being We Are Wrongly
by Christopher Higgs
Before important X happened in July back on the railway tracks praying a freight train through both of us fucked and finished. X with her yardstick and saying meaning almost aloud, “What’s for our love a better word minus the baby?”
X hates the baby. I know and I know but I know. In public with it she won’t go yet neither will she come right out and say it. Or if me too or also she hates not wanting the abortion.
Happened with the baby and with X’s dying parents found her pregnant being mad and moved as far away as credit cards allow to some cabin Montana hoping grandparent burdens escape might in the mountains. To this day if they decided I wonder to be the railway tracks if stalled her father’s truck at the crossing indicated as in the report or if the police meant to lie we’ll never know. Says X cares not but to ourselves kill the way they died and then only six months later I do not know.
Now I am and X is. With no other parents. Say when and what she always does but why I know at night she goes without sleeping. I wake to an empty sound and the bed is a television coming from sometime later in the afternoon. Talking as if she’s got the baby or if maybe the absentness of her mother and father?
I dragged the funeral into the car by X’s hair while carefully being pregnant. Then her hair pulled the car to the cemetery when we arrived. Shook her eyes to fill with blood, jaw clenched I could not figure why. Was her folks to Montana her anger over disowning? Or about their success in the suicide she always desired?
Drugs no more for at least the deal and my end so far the bargain hidden between us.
In my down under kept secret nowhere of closetspace, a baggie she says a mother should smoke not but never. To need it to convince her I am not proud every now and then. Is not the tinfoil sparking? Not like forget about the baby and leave the burner in the park to clean the kitchen with a toothbrush; just to off the edge cut, we could both edge cut needingly.
This is not to her. To her I do not say cut anything anymore never. Funny how fuckups rearrange entire vocabularies. Say “cut” or “cutting” or into tears she goes running. Between us certain words are forbidden.
Like the sleep of our baby is an eighty year old woman. These shows these stories about the park and how miserable are babies I hear how they cry and cry and let you like a moment but for I and X the truth hardly notices unless the baby’s favorite album does not play, Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots. Maybe our sleep is broken? I’ve thought before but always misspoken. The market once had a woman ask me how old was the baby and I said, “No. We have for now a while to see,” and growled the baby and started barking the lady.
All I have is all she has and vice versa. Sure speed freak friends who hate the straight edge settled down X who won’t buy a teener and up smoke the bunch of it, but where she was before the baby before her parents truck-smashed their death on the railway outside of Missoula before the funeral before her water broke no longer exists.
We are here is where we are. We are here and nevermore.
<< ISSUE #1
by Christopher Higgs
Before important X happened in July back on the railway tracks praying a freight train through both of us fucked and finished. X with her yardstick and saying meaning almost aloud, “What’s for our love a better word minus the baby?”
X hates the baby. I know and I know but I know. In public with it she won’t go yet neither will she come right out and say it. Or if me too or also she hates not wanting the abortion.
Happened with the baby and with X’s dying parents found her pregnant being mad and moved as far away as credit cards allow to some cabin Montana hoping grandparent burdens escape might in the mountains. To this day if they decided I wonder to be the railway tracks if stalled her father’s truck at the crossing indicated as in the report or if the police meant to lie we’ll never know. Says X cares not but to ourselves kill the way they died and then only six months later I do not know.
Now I am and X is. With no other parents. Say when and what she always does but why I know at night she goes without sleeping. I wake to an empty sound and the bed is a television coming from sometime later in the afternoon. Talking as if she’s got the baby or if maybe the absentness of her mother and father?
I dragged the funeral into the car by X’s hair while carefully being pregnant. Then her hair pulled the car to the cemetery when we arrived. Shook her eyes to fill with blood, jaw clenched I could not figure why. Was her folks to Montana her anger over disowning? Or about their success in the suicide she always desired?
Drugs no more for at least the deal and my end so far the bargain hidden between us.
In my down under kept secret nowhere of closetspace, a baggie she says a mother should smoke not but never. To need it to convince her I am not proud every now and then. Is not the tinfoil sparking? Not like forget about the baby and leave the burner in the park to clean the kitchen with a toothbrush; just to off the edge cut, we could both edge cut needingly.
This is not to her. To her I do not say cut anything anymore never. Funny how fuckups rearrange entire vocabularies. Say “cut” or “cutting” or into tears she goes running. Between us certain words are forbidden.
Like the sleep of our baby is an eighty year old woman. These shows these stories about the park and how miserable are babies I hear how they cry and cry and let you like a moment but for I and X the truth hardly notices unless the baby’s favorite album does not play, Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots. Maybe our sleep is broken? I’ve thought before but always misspoken. The market once had a woman ask me how old was the baby and I said, “No. We have for now a while to see,” and growled the baby and started barking the lady.
All I have is all she has and vice versa. Sure speed freak friends who hate the straight edge settled down X who won’t buy a teener and up smoke the bunch of it, but where she was before the baby before her parents truck-smashed their death on the railway outside of Missoula before the funeral before her water broke no longer exists.
We are here is where we are. We are here and nevermore.
<< ISSUE #1
