MIRACLE THORNTON

mourning ritual

the cadaver woman opens her cheeks with rouge, taps on a flesh toned cream, smooths over her caved stomach with oil. she’s visiting tonight. she puts on a slip that shimmers for her husband. the skin is loose on her chin so ties her hair up high, a bulb of curls spilling. it makes her look like a girl, like a daughter. the cadaver woman practices making her chest rise and fall.

in the cab, cadaver woman paints her lips fresh, rolls on a stick of sharp perfume. the driver breathes raggedly. he bumps over the curb. her husband likes this smell. in life, she never met another man like him, like a bloodhound. cadaver smiles warmly at the driver. he smiles back and laughs, apologizes. she closes the window.

cadaver rubs his wrist through the window on her way inside. he promises to stay all night. she passes through her husband’s threshold. she smooths the dust off the picture frames: her lace gown yellowed, the gaps in her daughter’s mouth filling in and spilling out, her husband’s crowded teeth, their first house in blue. the bedroom is dark. her husband sleeps beside another woman now with a soft brown body, like a burlap sack, a rope around the middle. cadaver opens the sheets. her husband is on his side, nose to the wall, the woman on hers, belly up, arms strewed. she’s bald. there’s no ring on her finger. cadaver leans close. the cadaver watches her breasts rise and fall.

her husband opens his eyes. he watches the woman. he says her name. she reeks. he touches her then smells his hand. he rubs it in the sheets. he smells the air. she smiles at him. she twirls, the moonlight on glitter. her husband lies back down. he faces the wall and pulls the sheets back over his shoulders.

the driver smiles as she approaches. she gets in the back. she takes off the slip and he pulls out. she takes down her hair. the grey curls catch yellow in the warm streetlights. the streets are bare. she pushes her stomach out and rubs. she thinks about asking the driver to fill her up. he stops at a gas station. in the checkout line of the gas station convenience store, the cashier peers right through her. a man from behind puts a fist full of snickers through her ribcage. the driver smiles as she returns to the car empty and he pats on the hood, eases his jacket off and over her shoulders.

they spend some time here. the driver smokes. she watches his chest fill up and spill out smoke, running her fingers through the thick of his arm hair. he’s got no rings on his fingers, no nails just bitten nubs. she picks up his hand. he flicks the cigarette and laces their fingers together. the moon shifts. she has to visit her daughter. he tries to kiss her. she lets him for a moment and smiles and breaks his lips apart until they’re just teeth touching.

she rolls the window down to let the smell out, watches the early birds in the inbetween, the cool grey of morning, the wet of the night. she passes through the car door, through the threshold. her daughter’s home is blue on the inside, white panelled, flowered between books and accolades. she slips between boxes to get to the bedroom. there, smooth and brown and pregnant. the man has his hands behind his head. both rings sit on the bedside table. their chests rise and fall out of sync.

she glides her fingers gently over her daughter’s shoulder. she watches the skin rise. her breath stutters. she says her name. through the curtains, the room is filling. she hears a cry. she looks at her daughter’s lineless face, nose a lump in the plane, lips small and thin like her father’s. through the skin, she sees the baby, its mouth open wide, screaming a small god kind of hum, clean and terrifying. she says her name. it’s white in the room. she can’t see her body. everything shimmers.

the cadaver woman says her name, over and over and over again. 

Miracle Thornton is a student at Interlochen Arts Academy. She's from a small town in New Jersey where she lives with way too many cats.