Katherine Markey Photograph of Your Parents, an Origin Story Here she is. Her body a bowl not yet filled with the thought of you and him standing there as unexpected as a knife. He likes the way she holds her cigarettes, how she tilts her chin to draw smoke into herself. She’s skinny, full of secrets, and you can tell by the way she poses for the photograph, she thinks a good man has found her. That’s all it takes. We dizzy right up to pain we believe belongs to us. Imagine yourself in the curl of his lip over a cold beer can, or a crack in the glass that she holds and when her mouth slides over it, you’ll bloom there in the drink. So throw your own party, unearth for your guests the story about the night your parents met. Pretend you’re not mining this experience for someone else. Pour the drinks strong, and tell them how your father earned his nickname after drinking so much— a bathtub full of Bullfrog, he’d say— he ate the field mouse brought to him by his own friends, who knew he was a man capable of terrible things. You, not yet dreamt of, but there he was extinguishing some quivering softness,
Crab Orchard Review
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