Alice, Rewritten
By Despy Boutris
My throat was sore with shards of mirror, glass. Outside, the moon hung low, wide and white, starred like an open eye. I felt blood begin to flood my mouth. Why had swallowing the sight of myself felt like a good idea? Outside, fields stretched for miles, sky swelling with smog. An engine revved in the distance. I shivered so I put on a sweater, and then a winter coat. And another. I lay in bed and traced thistles and letters onto my pillowcase. Opened my mouth and watched blood bloom, stain the sheets red. I turned the radio dial and listened to static. I strained my mouth to speak. Sound of gravel, screech of tires. Grate of metal. Was that my voice or scrape of mirror, glass? I stood up only to fall to the floor. It felt moist. I rested my cheek on the hardwood. Burning up. This room the aroma of mildew. I reached into my mouth for the shard slicing my tonsils, and my fingers turned to thorns. Outside, a flash flood, rain battering the windows. Convulsing trees, sway of spurned bottles hanging from branches—not wind-chimes but -rackets. I sipped my tea that had gone cold. It tasted like copper, far from the chai it was supposed to be. The rain was unforgiving. The pain unforgiving. Throat on fire.
Landing by Thomas J. Philbrick
About the Author:
Despy Boutris's writing has been published or is forthcoming in Copper Nickel, Ploughshares, AGNI, Crazyhorse, American Poetry Review, The Gettysburg Review, Colorado Review, and elsewhere. Currently, she teaches at the University of Houston and serves as Editor-in-Chief of The West Review. You can find her on Twitter at @itsdbouts.