Fortunate, Desperate, Trustful

Liza St. James


They told me to turn at the teeth. Little white headstones, cleaner than the rest. And yet, and yet. Beyond the teeth there was no plot, only a rash of grass filled with snails. Where the headstone should have been, I plucked up a grip of soil and made a pillow for the dewberry vine I snipped on the way in. Everyone knows the most delicious berries grow in graveyards. I went to the cemetery and my mother was not there. I went to the cemetery and all the snails had my mother's face. I went to the cemetery and sat among shells, escaping.