SUGAR by Meggie Royer • Cleaver Magazine
SUGAR by Meggie Royer When my mother takes us to the sea my father does another line. At night when someone comes downstairs for a drink of water the kitchen table stretches itself into shadow like a paper tiger. Once, at the bottom of the steps, wavering before the stove, I saw him take so much his eyes rolled back in his head. On some mountains, the bodies are never recovered. Just salvaged. A string of beads, a broken glass, bloodwork losing itself to memory. The things we do to ourselves trail like tire marks into snow.
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