![]() Sometimes she would say, The sun is a meatball, and I would joke by replying, And what is the daughter, and she would look at me and say, The daughter is a cutting board. She liked to point up at the sky and slice it apart with her fingertip, naming each cut of the blue: rump, ribs, hock, hoof. The third widow was a butcher and said she liked our basement because of the meat hooks, which reminded her of earrings, silver earrings that the house wore when it was ready to get married, and when I looked closer, I saw that she wore earrings that were miniature meat hooks, that her ears were made of mutton. ![]() The first widow sleepwalked, and one night I followed her to our bathroom, where she stood hook-spined over the toilet and wept into it, attempting to flush down her own hands, which resulted in the toilet being clogged, which resulted in my aunt calling the plumber, who extracted the widow’s stuck hands with a pair of oversized pliers. Instead of using the toilet, the widow pissed into quince-tea jars and shat in a series of Nordstrom Rack shoeboxes that she duct-taped, saran-wrapped, and then buried in our backyard. The first widow came with a collection of wigs-colored to match any weather, any cloudmood-and refused to use the toilet, saying that she once knew a woman who drowned her baby in a toilet. ![]() When the power goes out, we hang knives from the ceiling as substitute lights when our beds are hungry, they bake us into bread when the bills arrive as a flock of carnivorous birds that threaten to peck out our intestines, my mother and seven aunts and I share two bedrooms and rent out the basement-what had once been a slaughterhouse, with hooks that snagged on our shadows and no windows but our mouths-to a series of widows who respond to our Craigslist ad.
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