Emma’s playing with her shelf. Emma the slasher. Her right hand travels through the still life. All items pulled towards the center of planet Earth. Week-old crisps unravel, glass symphonies erupt. It’s a mad party, party of her kind.
I like her better when she’s euphoric, big t-shirts of lavender and goldenrod, singing 80s China, 50s America.
Of all the things I’ve created, her joy’s the most. In my world, her joy’s a must.
“It’s Emily”, she abruptly yells from the kitchen.
“Emma, Emily, what’s the difference?” I respond.
Of all things sublime, she may be the most.
That’s why when my wife went ordinary parodic rage, I confessed.
“It’s not you, it’s her”.
“I will make you miserable”.
Touché.
