Tuesday you’re the girl who was raped and stabbed and stuffed into trash bags within eyeshot of two executive high rises on the Upper West Side. The trash bags will lead Briscoe and Green to a suspect, a parks employee whose own mom used to lock him in a closet so she could party in peace
Wednesday you’re the girl on a slab in the morgue, your body dusted in white light. On a break, the suspect brings you a cup of coffee dark as the dirt they’ll bury you in. He talks to the scars that hair-and-makeup carved on the curve of your tits. You vow again to study ventriloquism so your tits can talk back.
Thursday you’re the long-gone twin of the dead girl. You wear a pilled cardigan raveling at the elbows and a dark wig that sweats your head, a guilty itch. You swear on a bible to tell the truth, that your sister was a crackhead who blew men in bathrooms for spare change. You sob on the stand, an Emmy worthy performance. The director yells cut and asks for a little less hysteria, please.
Friday, Saturday and Sunday: You sleep in late.
Monday, you’re found guilty of killing your twin who was really the good sister.
Tuesday, you’re eating lunch in the park when a man in a green uniform hoists two trash bags and tosses them into a dumpster. He wipes his hands and walks toward you, smiling.
Sarah Freligh is the author of four books, including Sad Math, winner of the 2014 Moon City Press Poetry Prize and We, published by Harbor Editions in early 2021.