by Mea Andrews

We would have separated on our own, but you came with a van that could only be started after forcing my twelve-year-old mouth to wrap around a black tube of plastic and blow, one long beep and you’re in. Mother could never do it, It’s the mouthwash, she says, places a penny under her tongue so maybe the alcohol on her breath won’t register next time, old wives’ tale waiting to be proven useless.

I steal money from the white plastic cup in your bedroom, the only way I’ll have anything to eat, hitchhike to Food Lion, wait for the truck to circle, circle, leave – circles are engraved in the nature of men who offer thumbed rides, wondering if they still have a chance at a reward for their service. Walk the hour home wishing for more trees, eat dinner alone, no one ever questioning where the money has gone.

You split us, a flesh-driven ax through gangrenous umbilical cord so we could become the tacked-on pieces of your life. You brought your self-made brand of Catholicism to our lives – only the male God could drive you to your knees. I heard your confession to my mother (how much pride did that cost you, to confess to a woman?) once: Neighborhood widows used to pay you in candy for services rendered when you turned eighteen. Community service, you called it and you both cackled. 

I am not your overly-endowed God, I will not forgive your sins, kicking me out to live with a stranger on my birthday until I dragged myself home to sit in your silence, only allowing me in your sight when you needed to get to work in the morning or for all the nights I starved – all the things that keep us earthbound.

Mea Andrews is a writer from Georgia who currently resides in Shenzhen. She has just finished her MFA from Lindenwood University and is only recently back on the publication scene. You can find her in Gordon Square Review, Rappahannock Review, Tipton Poetry Journal, Potomac Review, and others. She was a 2022 Pushcart prize nominee and has a poem currently up for Best of the Net.