“After The Reception,” 1887, by Douglas Volk (1856-1935)
When she threw the bouquet, she silently cursed. She knew what she was losing— After the stillbirth, she reconstructed herself: bought new clothes, dyed her hair, ran up debts until she was pregnant again. She heard him shredding papers in a dark room. The baby cried. She walked past it. Seven months without a name; or maybe he named it and forgot to tell her. When she was cut open, the doctor left her fertile. He also left tumors. The malignancies imbued her with hyperreal sensitivities. Violets followed her everywhere; and smoke, and wet dirt. She nestled into the laundry hamper and closed the lid.
©2016 Clare L. Martin
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