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Emily Brink

The Warrant

I sit in my study drinking a coppery scotch. I'm gathering pieces of red cloth for a quilt—red is best. Today I am celebrating my ex's imminent arrest. Last night I described him in detail for a cop. For once, the memories that haunt were useful. My father, ever so Asian, thinks I am making trouble. I should bow my head and accept everything. My mother, fair-skinned, raised in poverty by a feisty blackjack dealer, knows a fight, understands the theory of death. First denial, then anger, then bargaining, depression, and finally, acceptance, if you are lucky. I haven't stopped digging at the black roots of his rage, which planted themselves in my garden, unwelcome guests with angry fists and razor tongues.

Auburn leaves thread
stiff black boots
marching through the frost.

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