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My Childhood Dog Jessie Once Ate A Box of 120-Count Crayolas and Shat Speckled Rainbows for a Week


I used to think everything had meaning— and it does.

—Mary Ruefle


And how was I supposed to

not look for her

leavings like Easter

eggs or mud


pies with sprinkles

in the tall summer

grass? My humor back

then—fast


to ignite, like Vicky

Volvo’s backseat

upholstery

when my mother’s


cigarette

wind-whipped

out her open

window and back in


through mine.

The little burn

on my thigh

like a tiny camellia,


the blister’s

petals angry

as the lie.

Don’t show this


to anyone, she said.

They’ll think—

they’ll think I—

I butterflied


my heart

like a shrimp

over that. And

when I asked


if I could call

my grandmother

about the rainbow

shit, mom said, Some things


we just don’t

talk about.

I didn’t understand

delight


not shared.

Or pain.

Soon, the blister

melted back


into me.

Like joy.

My forgetting—

human, plain.