All she can see is legs. And black doctor’s bag. Bag over head. Things going white. Her hands to my throat. A birthday party. My birthday party. Breathe all your air out. Have you ever passed out? This will be fun.
Head between your knees. Is all your air out? Nod your head. They are all watching. Cold hands to my throat and blackness.
She wants to try. She is not very smart. We all know she is not very smart. Little raised bumps on her skin. The color of her skin. Her mouth is always red and wet. She lisps. Breathe out. Are you breathing out? She wants to try. Don’t know why, but something in us wants to hurt her.
Whose hands are against her throat? Are my hands against that soft white throat? She must sustain. She must please. And so she chokes.
Close your eyes and go to sleep. But she will not. She is too stupid to sleep. She is too stupid to let go and so she goes and tells our mothers.
Doctor’s bag. Cold stethoscope against warm back. Breathe in. Breathe out. I welcome you.
Tria Andrews has published critical essays, fiction, poetry, and photography. She currently resides in San Diego, CA, where she mentors for the American Indian Recruitment program and teaches yoga to incarcerated adolescents.
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