ENVY

by Alexandra Disabella

Vines are persuasion –
the way they invade,
envelope limbs,
extremities locked
in awkward embrace,
coiling around the warmest parts
possessing pulsating stalks,
rudimentary cotyledon
stifling cordate leaves,
deoxygenated,
infested by mere weed.

A Stone’s Throw from County Jail

The only time my aunt came to visit
was when uncle Mike was thrown in County Jail.
            “He didn’t do it”
                        she said.
But we knew otherwise …
having a penchant for bending boundaries
AND as runt of the dysfunctional bunch
we knew his tendency to take what was not offered
would resurface

like the way the onions from the corner store at the end of the block
marinated the sidewalks and hanging planters
so that with each blowing breeze and insufferable heat
the odor would bake,
ferment.

Uncle Mike was like that, too –
digging his way back into our lives
lingering –
never trying to show up on purpose.

Petty theft, I guess, was his way in
to be as close as stone walls,
barbed wire,
and cuffs would allow.

When the screams would lift through my open window at night,
I’d often try to pick out his voice –
he sounded like suspicion and the pull of a cigarette
breathy,
cautious,
capable of convincing me to set him free.

But mom knew the pattern
the gentle way in which weasels inch into gaping holes,
never self-aware enough to know
they didn’t need saving.

If Raskolnikov was a 16-year-old Girl

It wasn’t my fault.
            She wouldn’t give me what I wanted –
                        20 rubles for mother’s gold cross
                        I needed money,
                        quick
                        no time to invest
                        sweat
                        tears
                        blood …
There was so much blood
            dripping from the temple and slight dip of the frown,
                        falling
            in         and      out of wrinkles
                                                            as the red sludge pooled on worn brown wood.

Shit, shit shit …
Chipped black nails rested over the soft flesh at the base of the jaw

no pulse.

Shit, shit shit …
Scuffed trainers squeaking back and forth,
tendrils knotted,
framing frantic eyes
searching for the way out.

Footsteps mirroring the sound of her pounding chest
echoing the thwack of the bat
as it cracked against a crepe paper covered skull.

She hadn’t even intended it –
the deft way her hand wrapped around the handle
and swung with precision.

She hadn’t even thought to cause harm
until the shopkeeper’s derisive sneer
hung above the left incisor.

I need to get the hell out of here.
Grabbing the bat,
wrapping it inside the left panel of her sweater,
turning toward the slightly ajar door

huuuhh!
                                    Pocketbook thudding to the ground
hands pressed into aged cheeks
as screams rippled down frail frame

thwack

Thud

Boom!
The lock clicked into place,
muted steps raced down the hall
as another red river ran to fill
the bloody pool.

BIO

Alexandra Disabella is an educator and writer based in Pennsylvania. After recently completing her MFA from Wilkes University, she has spent time drafting poetry, memoir, and fiction. An avid baker, she spends countless hours in the kitchen developing new recipes. When she isn’t lesson planning, writing, or baking, she spends time with her husband, cat, and two dogs. Find her at https://www.alexandradisabella.com/