Liza St. James
They told me to turn at the teeth. Little white headstones, cleaner than the rest. And yet, and yet. Beyond the teeth there was no plot, only a rash of grass filled with snails. Where the headstone should have been, I plucked up a grip of soil and made a pillow for the dewberry vine I snipped on the way in. Everyone knows the most delicious berries grow in graveyards. I went to the cemetery and my mother was not there. I went to the cemetery and all the snails had my mother's face. I went to the cemetery and sat among shells, escaping.