by Katie Leigh
|
To my daughter, I leave a womanly ache, a splinter in the pelvis, imminent double mastectomy, and a c-section scar spanning from hip to hip. I leave her a wristlet of ruby droplets, puncture wounds, and directions to my favorite hiding place under the stairs. She will have my water logged romance novels; colored from cerulean to lilac to gold, covers ripped to tatters, like elk skin post-hunt. I leave to her, my darling daughter, the recipe for her great-grandmother’s infamously stirred meatloaf, plagiarized, long ago, from some discontinued can of tomato soup.
|
To my son, I leave everything, the entire world, waiting for him, legs spread wide, pink and primed, begging for a good fucking. I leave to him an ice-sculpture demeanor, my collection of foreign atlases, and the family rifle: a world traveler, somehow voyaging from Korea to Vietnam to Afghanistan, never seeing a moment of battle. He will have my last name, my first love, my inheritance in the eyes of God. I leave to him, my gentle son, the continent of expectation, ready and willing to be colonized by a sandstorm of gunpowder and gypsum
|
Katie Leigh (she/her) is a Junior at Oklahoma State University. She is pursuing dual degrees in English and History, meaning she spends much of her free time writing essays. In the future, she hopes to attend graduate school, write even more essays, and continue pursuing her goal of publishing original poetry. In her work, she explores topics such as social issues, relationships, and mental illness. She currently lives in Stillwater, Oklahoma in an apartment overrun with roommates.