In the rear-view mirror

When I was seven, my parents told me I was 

kidnapped by a witch that she slipped something

in my Sunny D and pushed me to her bonfire in the woods 

in a bright red wheelbarrow. We had a good laugh about it. 

“I’d remember!” I exclaimed. And they said, “Not if she stole 

your memory!” And we laughed about it. And I said, “I’d


anyway!” And we laughed about it and I drank my Sunny

D in the backseat, watching their eyes in the rear-view 

mirror. You cannot see mouths

in the rear-view mirror. You 

cannot tell if your step-dad

is looking at you or 

at something



Walker James is a queer poet living in St. Paul, Minnesota with his cat. They have been published in Haute Dish and have work forthcoming in Rag Mag Revival. Follow them on Twitter @fscottnaruto1.

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