About My Father
In this house, we tiptoe down the stairs
for fear he’ll hear us: trembling limbs and
sweet perfume, that musk
of teenage women. And he hates what he
can’t have - our long blonde hair,
the way we shave our legs.
Laid out on the couch, the television
fills the den with static blue, with
his mouth wide open, snoring,
letting all the bugs in. So I take my net -
the one my mother gave me -
and gently take to work; my sister watches
disdainful and afraid. She lingers
in the corner while I shuffle close to
sniff the rotting flesh, the breath.
His corpse exudes a strange new smell,
like flowers,
drenched in motor oil but still
so tender. My sister holds in tears
as I fish out the beatles, bugs, the cancer
from his throat. It floats.
In Bloom
Self sabotaging angel
slit your dusty wings,
reap the purged investment now
and sell your soul to escape the crowd.
Emergence into daylight -
moonlit skin shimmers against the dawn
setting gold, returning evermore
but never with virgin glow.
Seething with desire,
set your skin on skin
so fragile, milky on the fingertips
delicious at your raw and bloodied lips.
Soaking in the chasm
of sweetly mothered divine:
so tender, so devious
naive the youth
devouring bruised fruit
from their father’s hand;
feed from god’s own stomach,
guzzle down ancient poisons
and lie in poppy fields engorged.
In the fragmented evening -
beneath the encroaching shadow
of your former self
expanding past the horizon -
the sky is dripping crimson
into the grass
while seraphim plummet slowly.
Vermilion on her lips,
vermilion down her thighs;
his little daisy doll is finally
in bloom.
Anna Louise Steig is a young writer from the Appalachian hills of western Maryland. Her other works can be found or are forthcoming in Uppagus Magazine and Bruiser Magazine, amongst others. Find her on Instagram @a.l.steig.
