One story from the long stung
days when I was barely there
myself was my cat had litter
after litter of sick kittens under
my six-year-old daughter's
bed, most of which I'd find
splayed, stiff, in the mornings.
I stacked them in paper bags,
planted them in sorry batches,
lettuce refusing to leaf. One
Sunday I stepped outside
with a bag and a shovel as
a four-door sedan stuffed with
missionaries drove down our
dirt road. The well-dressed
woman who got out said
truth was in the tract she
handed me. But the minute
I touched it she said, That
will cost you a dollar, and I
didn’t have one, so what
could I do? I sent her salvation
away with her, but in my head
I handed her the bag instead,
filled with shareable facts
such as the grass grows
paler over the kitten patch.
Such as not everyone who
talks the talk undoes the dark.
Such as if Jesus shows up
to save whoever lasts, I
hope his jeep has an
ejector seat, just in case.
Originally published in Rat’s Ass Review.
Laurinda Lind lives in New York’s North Country. Some publications/ acceptances are in Blue Earth Review, Comstock Review, New American Writing, Paterson Literary Review, and Spillway. She is a Keats-Shelley Prize winner and a finalist in six other recent contests.