In A Teacup

for Xin Yang  (deceased 1/21/09)

Jason L. Huskey

The café quiets around six.
Busy students off to their parties
and narcotics on Mommy's dime
as we sit and discuss the future.

I tell you your eyes are like pearls.
You tell me that Capitalism
must be destroyed. We smile
and take a sip of cooling tea.

Two tables away a clatter crescendoes—
a Chinese couple engrossed
in quick jackhammer tongues
we fail to ignore.

"The language is pretty," I say.
"I wonder if they are Communists," you sigh.
We take a sip of cooling tea
as the man rises and approaches the woman.

"I bet he's gonna propose," I say.
"The institution of marriage is legalized slavery,"
you growl. I agree. We sip. He slips
out a knife and stabs her.

He jabs it into her. Saws on her.
He cuts her 'til her head comes off.
Never says a beautiful word.
Just turns and runs and vanishes into snow.

"Poor emigrant," I say.
"Thus, to tyrants," you say.
And we sip our cooling tea.
We sip our cooling tea.

The Old Hag

Jason L. Huskey

You wake to a jolt of night,
blur of eyes catching
specks of starlight.
The burlap of her dress
bows over you; the smell
of fresh dirt and dried blood,
her hiss of funk,
snaggleteeth gnashing,
tongue twisting with maggots.

You wake to a jolt of hell,
chest knotted, joints
locked in invisible death.
Your pulse quickens
as her yellow eyes
lead you into dilation. 
Half-eaten face laughs
as you find you cannot move—
paralysis of some sort—
mocking your still screams
with a lipless smile.

You wake without breath,
no voice, words bottling up
inside your esophagus.
Aorta clogged until
finally your heart gives up
its silence and tells her to
go. 
the hell. 
away. 

Your spouse rolls over
as you escape the spell—
asks for the divorce
in a calm sigh
and falls back asleep. 

Mr. Huskey's work has appeared in Keyhole Magazine, Thieves Jargon, and Word Riot, among others, and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize.  He lives in Virginia.