I’ll Give You Something to Cry About

by Susan Konz

He peels an orange and leaves the rind in the ashtray we are smoking over. The sweet oil explodes at the crack of skin. It is flammable, it hisses. I opened a vial of ketamine last night because the trees were lonely, silhouetted in gray and dreamt all night my son in afternoon pallor, tv on in the living room. He already hated me and I could not blame him. I woke on a beige carpet you can rent by the hour to find my god as the bitter rind slicked to the back of my throat and as propitiation I hand him my money, cigarettes, my mother’s amethyst and pressed hyacinth petals from the pages of old books. I walk around this way, shedding old sheaths, sentimental things I can no longer afford. I close my eyes to pray. I am so selfish I can feel the burn of it in my dyspeptic stomach – the tinny taste of remorse that keeps its eye open. This is bad, but I can make it worse. I have told the men all my secrets. In spite of myself, against my own wishes. Words trip out of me like robbers running from hedges. I cannot stop, I promise you. I sleep and wake all hours in a kind of treason that has turned me from my home, whatever soft light falls through the blinds there. I cannot taste the fruit on my tongue, only the bitter white left from its gutting. I say give me another piece. I am not done yet.