2 September 2002 | Vol. 2, No. 3

Mural of a Broken Curfew

by SHELLY REED

She's queasy over orange juice

and muffin batter rising

while shots of booze

she can't recall names for

bang a cadence at her temples.

There's no apron worn

in this kitchen but last night's

clothes fashion a route—

back door to bathroom—

where she laid, crumpled

like a past due bill

until a televangelist woke her

from a cable station in the living room.

This is how her children will remember her—

putrid with smoke

and bare as the walls,

withdrawing over a skillet

of grease splattering

and an effort to recall what day it is

and why she can't die on the Sabbath.