My mom will crawl into my lap like a baby and I will let her. My mom’s legs are so long and heavy with block feet. She walks with a jolting stiffness. My mom’s legs are Frankenstein but I will still hold her. There. In my lap. I will ask her to nuzzle me and to paw my breasts through my shirt, making gross grunting bird noises. My mom will be as drunk as I will be. This weekend. Come with us. I plan to get nosebleeds. If the nosebleeds don’t happen spontaneously I will find ways to make them happen. I won’t carry napkins. I want to be waried by strangers. I will bring many extra shirts. This weekend. You can punch me. Meet me there. It’s the place that’s too hot for the horses. I’ve seen how the sun kills them. The saddest thing is a dying horse. That time I hit one with my car. How I sat beside it while it died. Begging it to rise again, let me on its back, how we could just ride away and eat grass and lick salt. If he would just get up. Those last breaths kicked up dust. This weekend, if you join us, you can try to stop me from peeling the skin from my fingers. These odd spots that itch. Finger-colored nubs that grow and disappear randomly like twitching brown cock-humps out of gopher holes. I can’t stop them from feeling victorious whenever I scratch them. They make me look foolish. I’ve dried to pinch them off but they just come back. Now I’m digging and peeling. This weekend, help me find their roots. This weekend, if you come, you can wrap the bandages around my right hand because I am right-handed and the left-wrapped bandages will be too loose to do any good. The skin is red and smooth. It looks lit from behind. This weekend with my mom and my nose blood and my fleshless fingers and your helpful bandaging and all the alive horses, indoors, where it is cool. We could be there together. Drinking vodka in the smoke.
Tracy Lynne Oliver is attempting to make a new name for herself in this writing game. Check out her cool website: tracylynneoliver.com or just follow her on Twitter @T_L_OLIVER