Calliope
She hits me
in the face
with a dictionary,
a thick one,
the kind that sit
on bookshelves.
Before I can recover
she asks what I did
with the vowels.
I say I don’t know.
She hits me again,
but harder.
The spine snaps.
Ink runs from my eyes.
Please, the words, I beg,
they’re between
the covers.
I try to write down
what I don’t know for her.
She rams the edge
of the dictionary against the bridge
of my nose and asks again
Alright…I cry
the vowels are in the closet
next to the patent leather boots.
She uses the dictionary
to make a stool
and ties me to it.
She puts the boots on
and leaves
with the vowels.
- m.r. kidd
