Susan Sanford Blades

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Susan Sanford Blades lives in Victoria, BC. Her fiction has been published in Other Voices, The New Quarterly, and on Little Fiction



Kneel Young persists. Meet me, meet me on a train. Meet me, meet me in a plane. Meet me, meet me with a goat. Meet me, meet me on a boat. You persist. What are your daughters’ names? What’s your name? Tell me about your ex-wife. He evades. Meet me at Beacon Hill Farm. I’ll be with the goats. Meet me in the cemetery across from the Y downtown. I’ll be shooting heroin. Meet me in Fernwood square. I’ll be slacking.

Tom is suspicious. You’re spending a lot of time on the computer. Research, you say. For what? Life—grad school, maybe. But you’re a mother. I’m not your mother. I don’t want you to be my mother. Then why did you say that? Say what? That. What? You know what. He smacks his two hands against the wall. The way you wish he’d touch you. With feeling. I can’t talk to you, he says. Then don’t, you reply. You both stay. Marble statues. Ice sculptures. How hard would it be to melt? Wrap your hands around him, grab his crotch. Say is that a gun in your pocket? He would laugh. Turn to you. You could fall into him. Rub your cheek against his stubble. His furry warmth. His kiss, like home. Safe and comfortable. Sometimes annoyingly so. But then Sebastian would cry. Tom would say the baby. What those two words have come to mean. Take care of that. Make it stop. And that would be that. You leave him, hands against the wall. To your bed, your laptop. Meet me, meet me with the goats.

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