Rhonda Recalls the Origin of Death to Snake Baby

I don’t like to feel cold. I’ve always been cold-blooded which is fitting. It reminds me of nights on my old front porch looking over Springdale Cemetery. A place I was so fond of I gave up on school at sixteen to dig graves. Something about a burial made me feel warm, returning to earth. Our bodies are senseless in-betweens for the better thing we become. Which is my poetic way of saying life is shit. That cemetery was my calling. It led me all the way to here, through layers of fire and burning. It led my ex to me. One evening, I was so cold, I had just finished the grave, no one around. I decided to climb in, maybe steal that bit of warmth they get. I closed my eyes and imagined waves washing over me like someone was dumping their above ground pool down into this grave. I could almost feel myself reaching out for water wings and pool noodles, death is so beautiful that way. When I opened my eyes, his head was blocking the moon in a crescent. He was in the middle of assessing my jewelry and shoes when I up and started breathing. I wish I didn’t breathe. I wish he’d just taken my shoes. Rhonda and Jimmy, gravedigger and graverobber, what a match made in Tallahassee purgatory. I mean, it was okay for a while. I dreamed of death in the graves while he checked out the cargo. Then, he’d help me lower them which was nice because dead people are pretty heavy. It went this way for a while, long enough to get married. But Jimmy thought he was a savior, that I didn’t want to be covered in dirt and rot. Thought he was helping me be a better person, and that’s why it was okay to beat the shit out of me. I was learning to be normal. I was learning to be righteous. And I don’t know what it was about twenty-six months of abusive marriage that finally left a sour taste in me. The steak fat was grained in my teeth. I was tenderized, a perfect ribeye, flavorful. But I was dead. And not the beautiful kind in the ground watching the moon pass in phases. I was in a body, feeling pain, breathing, and powerless. I passed this row of bars to get to the corner market each week. Jimmy liked their meat or had some back door deal with the owner about selling grave trinkets. It smelled like prayer candles and stale bread. I was walking back and there was this man, confident but in this promising way. He was talking about self-worth, making uncomfortable eye contact with people like he was searching for something in them. And when he looked at me, I dropped the steak and limes like brains on the sidewalk. Splat. And for a second I stopped breathing. I wasn’t in purgatory anymore. I was meant for something, I had a purpose. Days were full of unlearning and relearning the world, people, the end. I was really brainwashed for a while. I really thought you were a Snake God. I really thought there was a prophecy and all that shit enough that I gave my hand up for it. For all the times I sinned by thinking I was less. That part woke me up, just like you. And when I figured out he was full of shit, I don’t know. He kept his distance, fed me, gave me a place to stay. It was better than frozen peas on my cheekbone. It was better than nightdreaming in graves. It was a pretty nice purgatory. And yeah, I was scared of you, but I’m scared of being cold, and I’m scared when men raise their voice, and I’m scared I’ll never get to die. You woke me up. For every moment you talk about times you felt rebirth, I was somewhere feeling death. I was there feeling it too. And I think all this weightless was my body trying to break free and find you. I think we’re meant to tackle this awful purgatory, these awful bodies, breathing and breaking. And I know I’m not Wichita, but I don’t want to be. I just want us to keep each other warm until the weight pushes us down enough to sleep the night.