by Kes Nave
Poetry
Fortune was holding his hand, whispering in his ear
assurances like rotten raspberries
too soft on the tongue, turning to mush and dribbling down his shoulder
the judge was piling smooth white stones on one side of the scale
that the Lady J had lent him (he promised to take good care)
one for every A, touchdown, friend, times he held the door open for an old lady,
fingers on his hand, digits in his phone number, years left in his life
until they were spilling over onto his desk
on the other side, a single solo cup (color: red)
his lawyers had their own stones, black and jagged
they piled them on my arms, legs, breasts, apex of thighs
reverse peine forte et dure
spit in my mouth and called me cassandra
(nobody ever blames apollo
or brock
or bart)
the jury came out singing with a sheet cake
cut into it, pink for girl, blue for boy
white for Not Guilty, no yolks in him
gobbled it up amongst them
sweetness stinging their teeth
he filled with helium, rose to the ceiling, bounced off the lights
his parents pulled party horns from their pockets
wet with spittle, blow
filled the room with raucous
Fortune told me, don’t be a sore
loser
Kes Nave is an undergraduate creative writing student at the University of La Verne. She has previously published a short story in the annual Bouchercon Anthology. This will be her first poetry publication.