by Katrina Pelow
I believe
- you should die in the same place where you
found your heart, clutched in the young, rough
hands of the Peterson boy that lived on top of the
hill near the tracks, working at his father’s
factory, making the spring that switches on the
power to the microwave oven that’s going to dig
this business out of the ground. You should meet
him for lunch at noon standing outside the gates
with a basket and a smile and two ham and
cheese sandwiches, both for him, because you’re
too busy staring at the smooth, stained skin of
the boy who lives on the hill where he’s keeping
your heart in a mason jar on his nightstand,
accepting its responsibilities but ignoring its
worth.