Can't Be the Killed

Rachel Andelman



The narrow corridor lets its gravel spill. Our tight walk sounds too loud, like breakfast before the swallow. There is a lot to mourn behind us. A bronze statue popped out a litter of princes. They batted at each other in their consigned pyramid, covered in sticky remains, female with bullet wounds. They started mewling, lapping up the bowled white wine. One of them looked in my freckles, causing me to become for a modest epoch quite sentimental about the monarchy. A flame— was it a romance— seared my shoulder. Pain was my cue to let myself go. I waved goodbye to the revolution, the flags stuck in and flippant about the rubble, the delivery room a mountain of babies that would adolesce; ergo, they'd learn the ropes of Tauris. Their tiny clutches imprinted wildly on the lobe, where affection hid in attics, from nazis and incest serial hysterics. I toured the halls with the USO. Our scrubs pristine, guilt sometimes felt laid up in gurneys heading south. Ideas dripped in tubes to be absorbed by minds too hurt to process. A person boiled and spilled their raw materials on my skin and minted hair. I saw the bubbled blood. And here I had thought that bubbles held good witches here to kansas lucky brunettes home.





Rachel Andelman is a film major at Bard College. Her writing has appeared in > kill author, Night Train Magazine, and Yankee Pot Roast. If we are being honest, she wants to be in show business.