All-Clad

Zoe Smith

In his final act, My father didn’t write a will, because who does at fifty-two? Intestate succession: kick the bucket, I’ll hit the jack pot, it’s stainless steel, four hundred dollars, they don’t make them like they used to when he bought it on the eighth floor of Macy’s, sometime in 1980, and taught his only child to cook with, twenty five years later, we made cowboy candy and it stuck to the sides of my mind when he killed himself in bed just to leave me one rondeau with lid that remembers him when I stir his recipe for braised cabbage.

There is a piece of hair in the air, and I can’t reach it.

No. 1: Get up every day at 7 a.m. Why can’t I reach it?

It’s so far away, I wonder if it knows I’m here.

I peel the skin back, knuckles showing.

No. 2: Make your bed. I make myself vulnerable, exposed, no one looks at me.

If I cut out a part of myself, will I become likable?

No. 3: 2 p.m., time for your mental health walk!!! I chop away the parts— she is all that remains. They like her better.

When she smiles, I scream to stop— she doesn’t listen.

No. 4: Don’t forget to stay hydrated. There is no way to break down what I’ve become. I hate her—she hates me.

This is where I remain, arm in the air, reaching out, but never grasping.

Sydney Hsu