Fiction – BERKELEY FICTION REVIEW

The Drive to the Crematorium

On the drive to the crematorium, I think I make peace with your death.

It is Earth’s final snowfall / and everyone is here.

This is probably why I want him to impregnate me, so my kid won’t have to suffer, and, in turn, I won’t have to suffer.

Dripping in the color, she was sci-fi sanctified, alien and clean.

After our first week, I begin to lose things during the walks along the creek.

The ship features a recreation of a slave ship's hold. The cruise prides itself on it. It is not a good recreation, if the metric is realism.

Promise me you won’t write a poem about me.

I am Iris, I thought. Iris is me, and Iris is in the wrong lane.

Don’t worry, I said, you’re the sea, and it’s impossible for the sea to drown. There’s nothing big enough for you.

The hall closet candles are white, ten inches long, and shaped like penises.