Fall 2014

Edited by Andrea Spofford | Barry Kitterman | Amy Wright



Andrea England

Half-way through July, three ceases to be a magic number. Sibling rivalry is as natural as the desire to throw your inconsolable toddler out the second story window. Even the social worker says as much. My mother’s handed down adage: There is no such thing as boredom, only boring people, always met with contorted faces and the rolled whites of eyes. By three o’clock the summer parent slips into voyeur. We crack open the curtains, we pretend we are reading, folding, preparing dinner, all of this accumulation, just to let it pass. Our children choose their calling when pushed. Into the great outdoors, doors locked, snacks on the front stoop, there we are, watching three not-so-little girls in disguise: Two maimed wolves chase the meat-horse. Eventually the meat-horse falls to the ground, out of breath with laughter and the licking begins, a two on one on the front lawn until she grows tired of tongues and hands. To have sisters was all I ever wanted. On the savannah, after a cheetah stalks and dines, she’ll abandon her own to lick her prey’s offspring in consolation. At night, three dirt and saliva-streaked girls climb into our bed. I don’t know what, or which one, to hold onto tightly.

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