Perfectly Breakable

Mother buried hacked-up carp beneath pink rose mallow. She knew the filthy cats would come. A balled-up dirty rag and coffee tin of smelly kerosene were garrisoned behind a red berry twistwood. Mother would hide in a column of shadow near the porch. Ambush the cats as they dug for carp. Their noses spiced with fish-oiled peat. Tails flagged above puckered targets. Mother was quick with her kerosene rag — spot on! A hush-hush tripwire stretched taut round the perimeter of mother’s mortared desperation. The sacrosanct, lint-free, perfect world, where she demanded God wipe His feet at her door. Dear Mother, our Elizabeth Taylor dead ringer, who could waltz with kings, or gut them with a glare. Ghetto mother, who would murder to keep her suburbs white, the cat crap gone, and her prize mallow big as Frisbees. I couldn’t let it storm on mother. She would get crazy if her galvanized tin-roof mind was rattled. Her daughter always had to shine. I kept the attic window shutters well oiled. Mother never heard my bare feet crisscrossing the roof, as I ran to catch the rain.