DANGLING MODIFIERS IN HONOR OF CHRISTMAS

By

Matt Salesses

Standing at the end of the table, the turkey was carved by my dad. It was three feet tall and naked down to its skin, and had no head and no feet and was standing on the brown nubs of its roasted ankles. It was screaming in pain. I don't know. It had been screaming in pain for the last six hours. Before, in the oven, the noise had been muffled, I guess. Dad had said it would stop screaming when it was carved. Then he had said it would stop screaming when we ate it. It screamed that we would regret eating it. It screamed it would stick in our throats and choke us. It screamed it would come back from the dead.

By my count, that would make twice. I wondered, would that top Jesus's feat? Who could forget about Jesus? I thought back to last Christmas. Back then, Mom had been the cook and Dad had still been in prison. Back then, we had plum pudding and Rudolph cookies; Mom had said grace about how everyone carried a cross. Back then, I didn't have to pretend everything was normal when the cops came around. Now I had to keep the location of Mom's body a secret—or Dad said he would bury me there as well. Screaming in pain, the turkey slid down my gullet. Frowning, Dad saw that I was upset.