Coca-Cola
by Zachery Noah Rahn
|
has suds that burn my tongue so I burst Kool-Aid open and swallow. Grandma’s pool is warm in July like chlorine bathwater. Jessica calls it her big tub. Each hot day we are here and we never wear sunscreen. From morning to evening. When cicadas shout, we pack up and eat dinner. Ham sandwiches and Doritos. Repeat tomorrow. My childhood grew to this: pink cheek glitter in the rays, arms picked by beetles, bugs splitting their throats in hot heat. Every few days I watch spots multiply on her arm. What are those dots? She goes red. It’s the waterbugs, don’t let them bite you! We made this our game, flinging the jittery pests out the pool. From birth to nineteen, she swam with me. She had me beat by seven years and still I was her brother. Wanna make a whirlpool? Sure, let's swim in circles. Time couldn’t catch us. Cicadas still shout songs, singing, please God, let us be cold. But now Jessica is dead, eyes craned at the skull, jaw unhinged like an apple caught her throat. Heroine got her sudded at the mouth. My family wept to this. Dad, don’t call her a hang-up, she’s never missed my phone calls. Grandma, she’s not bugged-out. You have a cicada problem. Mom, stop buying me juice. I can’t stomach sugar anymore. Jessica, why couldn’t you stop swimming in needles. Why did God wring you dry.
|
|
Zachery Noah Rahn (he/him) is a queer poet and essayist with a bachelor's in Writing & Linguistics from Georgia Southern University. He enjoys watching horror movies, rollerblading, and spending time with his friends. You can find his work in Alien Literary Magazine, Stone of Madness Press, mutiny! Magazine, and select other journals. Follow him on Twitter @zacheryrahn
|