Meat

Sam quits speaking of hunger, of cold. Of the low gray clouds that stalk at the horizon. As if Sam means to out-stubborn the truth of the house that won’t stand, the tiger skull¹ that for all its snarl² can’t protect from starvation now that the oats have run out, and the bullets too. Lucy tries to speak of their future. Sam has words only for the long-dead past.
Despite the overcast³ days, Sam shines ever harder. Brighter. Each morning Sam admires her reflection in the stream, like any girl—but warped⁴. Sam doesn’t put up her hair or brush it. Sam hacks⁵ her short hair shorter till bare scalp shows through. Delights in lost pounds, and the sharpening of elbows and cheeks.
And yet, in these vanities, Lucy sees Ma’s likeness⁶.
Once Sam studied Ma as Sam now studies herself. Ma transformed each morning before heading to the mine with Ba. She hid her hair under a cap, her white arms in sleeves. Bending to tie her boots, Ma’s face nearly touched the ashes. Like the story of a serving girl raised from cinders—only the wrong way round. It was a costume, Ma explained. Just till they saved enough. When Sam clamored for a costume too, Ma opened her trunk with its sweet and bitter perfume. She ripped a red dress for a bandana.
Sam shone so fierce with joy that day, Lucy had to look away.
Of all their faded and travel-worn clothes, that bandana alone holds its color. Sometimes Sam hums while tying it. A song to which they’ve both forgotten most of the words. The melody is Ma’s.
—
Worn down, arguments nibbled⁷ by hunger, Lucy dozes⁸ day and night. She dreams of green trees with heavy fruit, of fountains spitting chicken broth

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