by Katrina Pelow
My uncle still has phantom pain in his right leg made
of titanium that he takes off in the shower. He tells me
that ghosts can smell the addiction on my skin when I
open the patio door and stomp out the embers under
the sole of my slipper. He stares off through the clouded
glass of the dining room where he’s put his reclining
chair, telling stories of how he’s seen buildings shed
their bricks like snakes shed their skin and that we’re
all just vessels & continents & observes on the inside.
My uncle mows the grass every Sunday, putting on
the same mask that God wears, purchased at the corner
store along with a bottle of aspirin and a new rake. In
the fall he slips his thick hands into his fire-carrying
gloves that he wove from ashes and glass and cooks
baked beans, telling me that wolves can smell addiction,
too. I stomp out the embers under the sole of my
slipper, not wanting to ruin the taste of dinner.