The Trouble With Being Born

It was called Oak-something – Oakwood? Oakdale? – Diner. Waitresses, dressed as for mourning in all black, moved through the maze of tables and booths with the dull resignation of fish in an aquarium. Mom was sitting across from me, looking unusually happy. I felt kind of happy myself. Our waitress, a flyblown blonde, came over to refill our cups. She sloshed some coffee on the table as she poured. Mom rolled her eyes. Then I noticed the smell and her skin hanging down in strips like peeling wallpaper, and I realized I was screaming and that she was 20 years dead.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie's latest poetry collection, True Crime, was published by Sacred Parasite in Berlin this year.