Prodigal

I remember when my last kid left without so much as a goodbye kiss, only the gift of a radio to keep me company. One morning, fighting with the static, I heard a deer bawl in the breeze full of musk, and saw the buck I’d rescued as a fawn. He must have still been hungry, twitching his tail like there was a message in it, because he came right up to me and nuzzled my breasts. So I fed him from his old baby bottle. He was so tame I barely noticed the antlers growing out of his head.

Celebration

This is the time when winter sunsets illuminate a trick of the dust. The dust floats in a tangle of rays and confuses the cat on the leather chair. The leather chair is too slick for cat claws. Those claws can’t stop the cat from sliding across the seat as if sliding across a waxed floor. The waxed floor is where the baby sits, watching the cat dance, clapping his hands and giggling. Giggles are like champagne bubbles ready to pop. Pop them, why don’t you–there must always be something to celebrate. 

Dinner with Lady & the Tramp

The lady fights with sticks of spaghetti rising above the saucepan. Only those submerged in water bend to her will. The stiff bits hold themselves above the boil and she has to break them off to get them to drown properly. She’d wanted to serve him long strands, each of them eating from opposite ends until their lips met; but now the pasta has been demoted to pastina, and all those wet noodles, no longer long enough for twirling, slip off the plate onto his lap. Across the room, the garbage disposal turns on remotely. It sounds like a chainsaw.

Cheryl Snell’s books include several poetry collections and the novels of her Bombay Trilogy, and her most recent writing has been nominated for Best Microfiction, Best Small Fictions, and Best of the Net awards this year. She lives in Maryland with her husband, a mathematical engineer.