Crab Orchard Review Vol. 12, No. 2, our

Karyna McGlynn
After My Fifth Birthday Party, 1982
My mother and I walk through the wet neon
of the pizza palace parking lot—we wear garbage bags
and carry stacks of presents draped in clear plastic.
It feels somehow dangerous to be awake this late.
In the car, my mother unbuttons the top of her jeans.
She groans. “I’m never eating again,” she says.
She turns the key in the ignition. Her tape picks up
mid-strain: the Carpenters’ “Rainy Days and Mondays.”
She reaches across my lap, fastens my seat belt,
and then, suddenly, she clutches me fast against
the flat of her breasts, her moon face pressed
to mine; she is all fouled breath and desperation.
She shakes me by the shoulders and says, “Oh, god,
baby, don’t ever get like Karen Carpenter, okay?
Promise me.” I’m ready to promise her anything.
“Ok,” I say, nails clenched in a sticky fist.
Crab Orchard Review ◆ 149