The Matriarchs are Molting Again

Grandma’s ghost has taken up knitting rattlesnakes in the drapes. They hiss when someone lies. Now, my mother only speaks in noodle metaphors. I ask her how she is, and she replies, al dente, then goes back to stirring the aquarium water she'll later take a bath in. My sister gives birth to a daughter who levitates during thunderstorms. She answers to the name Unclaimed Bag. In other words, we all gather once a year to shed what’s left of politeness, to laminate new rules: No bleeding at the table. Far less mirrors in the fruit salad. All grudges must be gift-wrapped, left at the door with the shoes, with the husbands. And when it’s over, we nod like diplomats, swap our favorite spells, (that is to say recipes), pretend we don't notice the fresh claw marks on the floor. It ends when we remember our names again, who we are. Then we leave— each of us, in a different skin.