Hagiography
Sydney Smith
There was Maria, our saint, exuding formalin masked by wild violet plug-in candles. Remember that bad joke? The one about the guy on death row who only knew the words to the Glade Plug-In jingle? Me neither.
Remember last August when all us cousins went to the lake and Maria caught a big mouth bass full of tiny plastic fish and tubes of lip gloss? We couldn’t even throw it in the compost.
Polyester taffeta rubbed a rash around my biceps, all quiet but pots and pans clanging. Everyone packed into the living room in pinafores and panty hose and ivory square-toed heels and–
Maria’s eyelids were caked in blue eyeshadow, her casket adorned with purpled chrysanthemums, sweating. She used to do my makeup before Sunday dinner and I’d smear it off with tired hands like a bruise.
My uncle brought fifty pounds of fresh venison– the doe who smashed his truck in. She glistened on a hook outside the window. We watched her blood drain into the dirt, then Auntie tore her limb from limb and fried her up.
Sydney Smith is an artist & writer currently based somewhere. Their work has recently appeared in TQR Mag, Phosphenes, & Feral Dove — among others. Sydney also edits Not For Resale, a journal for people who like poetry.