By J.A. Tyler
Going back his father was the shell of an egg. Paper thin, cracked. His father the egg. Making the box, the angles, the lines, the shape of his mother, bellowing in silence. A coffin. A box. White shell, a sheet over the body, corpse drapery. Up to the sky going grey, pieces of him, pre-ash, pre-funeral pyre, his body burning inside out, his wife, their mother, coughed out and gone. From planks and boards, nails, he made her a box, the shape of her, room for a heart, their mother, his wife. He cried. He did not cry. He went without pause. Trees, planks and boards, nails, nothing to make fathers, daughters and sons, missing mothers. A father shell, bruised.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
J. A. Tyler is the author of The Girl in the Black Sweater [Trainwreck Press], Everyone in This is Either Dying or Will Die or is Thinking of Death [Achilles Chapbook Series], and Someone, Somewhere [Ghost Road Press]. He is also founding editor of Mudluscious and ML Press and was recently nominated for a Pushcart.