He knew where to bury them, which combination of indigenous grass and deer urine would obscure
the scent of rotted flesh. In Florida, he said, there are swamps overgrown with seashells. He knew who
was family who was foe, by the way their eyes shifted to the southeast corner of the room. His ears
attuned to subtle shades of sound, the difference between prehistoric skeletons and empty beer cans.
White comes in shades, he said, from virgin bride to pure cocaine. If you can’t smell the difference,
then you’re no good to me at all.
Beth Gordon is a writer who lives in St. Louis, Missouri. She received her MFA from American University a long time ago. Her work has recently appeared in Into the Void, Calamus Journal, Slink Chunk Press, Five:2:One, Barzakh, and others.