I build. I build the railroad that exists between my houses and the rest of the town I build the sound the metal makes against something--the brown squeak, the redding and rust illegal metal to wood and dust in my gums. I built that. Built it into me like a heart. My grandfather almost lost a finger when he was young but his mother wrapped it tight and it grew back, my grandfather lost the first part of his ring finger when he was older and his mother was dead.
I hold the plush feeling of baseball caps in my hand, the brim of the hat in the palm, smooth, stitched--the wind blows and it feels like rippling in my hand. My fingers suddenly smell of grandmother's perfume, like I scratched her and got blood under my nails that turned brown and didn't wash off and the smooth walls of concrete tell me I should not have been here. I have to eat my leftovers cold now and they're both gone.
Katrina Goudey
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