the interlochen review

poolside

Olivia johnson

I’m drinking

every bad decision within sight

of the papaya stewing in water

and even though Frankie’s got them

tied up in the house

I’m poolside.

restless

wait in circles for the water to rise

and spit up my seeds

hack through the dissolving antacids

and oily-backed scarabs floating on the surface

to give me a hint, a breath

of an answer.

yo, get in here.

I follow Frankie into the house.

his projects squeal on the carpet

and he pinches their legs

until they blossom

bruise and silence.

get the electrical tape.

I pull it out of a drawer in the kitchen

and look out the window. nothing’s surfaced yet.

my pants pinch, then sigh

the handgun sleeps in the living room

a painting rots its fruit on the wall

heh, Dorian Gray much? I think

Frankie tears into a pack of brats

and gives three to the dog

one to his favorite

hands me the bloody meat juice

gathered in the plastic packaging.

drink up.

I know it’s a joke

but the goldfish in my head

leaps towards the water.

hand me the tape.

he secures their binds with it,

double checks the duct tape sealing

their mouths.

the papaya must be ready, I think.

before long

Frankie tells me it’s time

for the egg wash.

while I hold down their arms

he lathers their backs and legs

one by one, then we flip them over,

paint their necks, dip into the collarbones.

in the pool, I watch it bob up

to break the ripe water.

I grab something to eat in the fridge

and leave Frankie with his pets,

walk out to the deck. the papaya

floats for a few seconds, then sinks

again. I sit on the pool edge

and submerge my tired calves. somewhere the dog

barks for more hot dogs. the window blurs.

the projects are fighting

back now. one’s grabbed the gun.

her fingers shake, but her aim is true. Frankie

blossoms a bruise on the side of his head

and falls to the carpet. the others

standing next to her scream silently.

guess he didn’t tie them good enough.