Rappahannock Review | Issue 4.2: Anna Kelley
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Your Sister’s Children Always Disappear by Cathy Ulrich
“Your sister’s children are always disappearing when she closes her eyes….”

The Moons of Jupiter by Tara Isabel Zambrano
“When Ramirez starts moving inside me, I know I’ll be blind…”

Carnival of Death by Dale M. Brumfield
“Public opinion was slow to protest against the imbruting effect of public executions…”

Flame Test by Rochelle Harris
“For the longest time, I thought it was about the marble or the coolness of the water…”

Finding Roots by Kristan Uhlenbrock
“Settling into a window seat, I tuck the begonia cutting into the edge of my handbag…”

Conveyance by Michael Brokos
“Bas-relief your hand on a lamp pole in rain mine tracing the bus schedule…”

Stealing Clay From The Crayola Factory by Grant Clauser
“Bushkill Creek churned past the old plant where my Aunt …”

Reading Hamlet by Kathryn Hunt
“When the others were asleep she sometimes
in the silence…”

Water Children by Kathryn Hunt
“That awful thunk and suddenly the arrival of
the minus hour…”

Processing by Anna Kelley
“Kate didn’t say whether she was there for the gunshot…”

Cataloochee by Kelly Lenox
“In the woods back of Caldwell House, I rest on a mossy root…”



Kate didn’t say whether she was there for the gunshot

or first cut. She started telling it at the plastic table

where the pig was thrown like an overcoat, bristles

heat-shrieked off the hide. He looked like my dog

we asked if this revolted her, which made her laugh.

No, it’s not like that. We were sitting in a semicircle

watching her mold the air with cold-reddened hands

into the outline of a pig. Had to be three hundred

and we got twenty pounds of bacon alone. His blood

brilliant as cider in a bucket by her feet as she traced

with an Eastman knife the belly’s invisible seam.

Not many deaths get to be good deaths. We want this

to be a good death: Kate lifting out the alien jewelry

of his innards, Kate who knows how to stay latched

on a bucking horse’s back and who carefully holds

her girlfriend’s scraped knees to check for swelling.

Kate called it processing. There are worse things

than being picked apart by someone who hungers

for you and knows about love. When she spread out

her arms—the cuts were this big, so red, so beautiful

it could almost be imagined like an insistent history.

The mammoth head lolling above. The gristled knife

and gloves. The meat sloughing from the wet skeleton

with a sound we imagine as flowers falling open.

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