Clementine
by Christy L. Hopper


She was made of egg shell, translucent and blue-veined, the yellow embryo awaiting new life outside the hot skillet fires of an Alabama summer, into the dry desert heat of California, where she cracked herself open, oozed onto pavement and cooked. Her hair was a bird's nest trapping of spun wheat and slivered mahogany attracting all the local crows who took turns bringing her baubles that gleamed like diamonds, but never were.
She drank lemon scented Joy for comfort, hoping to be as spotless and happy as housewives climbing dresser drawers in high-heeled shoes, curling up in nests of socks to say their prayers, dreaming of cats becoming babies who purred. A year from now she'll wake up in Mexico wondering where she left her purse, and virtuous chickens will shake their heads in disbelief, because fowl are always astonished by foolishness. Dios ama juevos. Birds travel light. They've no need for heavy baggage, or brazen images like a lone scorpion, pinchers flailing against slick porcelain, slowly drowning in the rusty dredges of the kitchen sink.






Copyright © 2024 by Red River Review. First Rights Reserved. All other rights revert to the authors.
No work may be reproduced or republished without the express written consent of the author.