PANHANDLE, GULF by Cady Vishniac • Cleaver Magazine
I forget to butter the skillet, so my egg spreads like pond scum, and it’s filmy and stuck, and the smoke alarm goes off, and it rings in my head the way gunshots do, and I’m parched and sorry, so I pull the sun from my hair in penance, and I slap my face with my largest ring turned inward, and I touch the skillet with the tip of my thumb, and I wait for the blister, and that’s the place the black widow bit me in preschool, so I had to go in the ambulance, so I had to get the shots that scared me, so my father kissed it better, but even now my hand catches fire when I think about spiders, and I toss my breakfast in the sink, and my kitchen fills with steam, and it’s those muggy days in Houston, so I worry someone might peek in the window, see me dancing barefoot on the linoleum, shrieking for help but not wanting any.