I made spaghetti for supper.

A bad day, you said. You needed a soak.

Your last words

as you breezed past me.

Moments later the bathtub faucet came on

an army of water pouring out

marching through your windpipe

and seizing your soul.


With a shaky hand, I twisted the doorknob.

You, in your work suit

overturned in the overflowing mess,

and I dropped to my knees

and shrieked like a dying hawk.


A week after, I stand to face the bathroom mirror,

glaringly memorizing my pale complexion.

Flicking away the tears


down my raw red cheeks.

I touch the limp strands of hair

clinging to my face like refrigerator magnets.

Vodka oozing from my skin,

the soles of my feet black as the coffin they buried you in.

With a jagged fingernail, I scrape

the dirt from my face leaving a trail of pink skin beneath the scum.

I want to scour the dead cell layers,

the grease, the grime.

But you died in that white coffin.


I walk around to the backyard and twist the hose faucet

until icy water spews from the metal mouth

down my frail legs and back.

Goosebumps rise over my body and I gasp

from the shock of cold, the icy hands,

stinging my back

taking my breath away.


Annie McCormick


Annie holds a Bachelors degree in Creative Writing with a specialization in Poetry from Ohio University.

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