Two Days Clean                                                                                                                                 Taylor Triplett

Poor boy: head-ached head, broken down                                                                       doll limbs and the fever not yet broken.                                                                           Last night your father came after you with a baseball bat                                                   for trying to take pills from the medicine cabinet.                                                         A/C sputters to an end, the room now a thicket of humid heat.                                          You feel nearly amphibious in all the warm and wet. 

The fever not yet broken, the sweat-wet skin                                                                  and the glass coke bottles lining the dust-caked wood,                                                   water-damaged and warped with age. Your broken down                                                   doll limbs strung out on threadbare blanket itchy with dandruff                                         and dead skin. The A/C sputters to an end, the room now hot,                                           you feeling amphibious from all the warm and the wet.

Your father calls you from behind the locked door,                                                   apologizing for coming after you with a baseball bat                                                      “but you know you can’t go in the medicine cabinet,” he says.                                             Your fever is not yet broken but the A/C is. It sputters to an end                                       while the room tilts, smelling of moth balls and cigar smoke,                                             which only aggravates your head-ached head. Poor boy.

Body still ringing from the baseball bat,                                                                   makeshift curtains of thick velvet to block out evening.                                                   Your father grows louder, scratching at the door. You                                                     can imagine the splinters under already dirty fingernails.                                                   The fan spins in a melancholic cycle, slicing air.                                                          Thank god ‘cause the A/C keeps sputtering to its end.