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
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.