CLAUDIA CORTESE

Lucy wraps salmon

around her fingers, plucks the pink flesh with her teeth. She must wash each hand seven times. She must throw the empty box of wild Alaskan salmon in a bag, wrap it in red, blue, and yellow ribbons. She counts how long she pees—reaching thirty seconds means her mother won’t die in a car crash. She presses the Reddi-Wip nozzle till her mouth fills with sugary relief. Walking down the sidewalk, she waves hello to no one. Tulip trees unpucker their lips in the wind. The sky, with its white pelts, its glittering lid, is always with her. At night, Lucy dreams a man ties her wrists, tears her panties, and thrusts himself inside her. Sometimes he’s a vampire, other times a burglar. Once, it was her father. Screaming no, she comes.