Once, when I was a child, my family dog picked up a kitten in its mouth, punctured a hole in its neck and it choked on its own blood. I think I cried for weeks. I think I tried to pry the dog’s jaws open. I think I came running into the kitchen, limp corpse in both hands, to find my mother, doing the dishes, telling me that this is how life works: We are kittens in our own dog’s mouth. I answer questions about my early childhood, my teenage years, my relationship with my parents, the success of my siblings. The way in which I think or don’t think about my own body. Patterns of eating, sleeping, how much sex I have had and with whom. Drugs I have taken willingly. Outside her office window, a tree branch sways violently in the wind. A robin’s egg has fallen from its nest, life spilling out onto the street.
Andrea Lawler is a poet, essayist, and short story writer. She holds a degree in English Language & Literature. When not reading, writing, or spending time with her three cats, you can find her at the local coffee shop. Follow her on Twitter at @andie_lawler to stay up to date with her work (seen most recently in Anti-Heroin Chic and Pink Plastic Press, as well as various others).