Eighteen Anamneses

for Lizzie

I. Things belly their way in, furred, many-legged; she cups them

to her.

II. They are kept in almost-large alcove; she, her little sister, never

leaving. Many bits of old paper around.

III. Not Fall River (1892). She is not that Lizzie and also

she is. She knows about hatchets.

IV. Here is a scrap: R-A-T, B-A-T, C-A-T; learn to spell them,

there they are, vocabulary-creatures.

V. She is moon-eyed and wild and rarely eats breakfast. She is

fifteen and thirty at once.

VI. A flock of pigeons gets in and roost on her so she

is made of birds.

VII. Rats scoot across rooftops; attic-bound, up high

girls can watch. Wish to be rats.

VIII. Roosting pigeons, pets, put to hatchet-death by the father

who keeps them (girls, not pigeons).

IX. Another scrap: I am a witch! Pentagram, pentagram, pentagram! What

is a pentagram? What? WHAT?!

X. Girls, kept penned and comfortable with all sorts of the father’s

malevolence.

XI. If only to be Hecate. Hatchets, though, are heavy

with their own memories.

XII. Lizzie squiggles down while the father is sleeping. To the hatchet,

hunkered in the corner.

XIII. The father’s eyeball split in half, mulch-coloured iris. Skull

whacked, face bashed.

XIV. A call placed to 911: Help! I need somebody. Help! Not just anybody. Help!

You know I need someone! Help!

XV. Gross, what a body can do to another when all a body has

is itself, its memories.

XVI. Little sister helps Lizzie burn her clothes. And his clothes. They keep

the hatchet.

XVII. No one thinks to wonder if the sisters had done

it. They fix up the place, keep pets.

XVIII. Last scrap: I am a horror. It’s wonderful to be a horror and to live

in a house that’s mine.