Her Washinton Monument spine refused
to bend as her face slowly slid downwards
against the Kool-Aid blue sky. She sank onto
the perfect green spearmint grass, her dress a
bright yellow pool of cloth and plastic jewels.
Her marshmallow-white smile was like a
sticker left out in the sun too long,
permanently stuck to
her oily-earth skin. Her beloved
family swarmed around her like elegantly
dressed flies, peeling their smiles off of a sheet.
Pasting it on their faces. Then swallowing the smile
without a glance at her. Her first breath was drawn out of
the genetic lottery fifteen years ago. Eleven hours ago. Two-
point-six minutes ago. Flashing lights stick to the inside of her eyes
like ghost nightmares, threatening to haunt her even in the presence of
the sun. Weeks later she begs the memory to disappear like a witness
in the program. The only reminder is the bright yellow pool she threw into
her crowded closet, buried underneath an old spearmint green bag.