Our Exquisite Corpse by Karen Walker

Our Exquisite Corpse

by Karen Walker

Before rain ruins the church picnic, we sit in a meadow among wildflowers. We have paper for the compulsory thank-you notes to God.

Ruth sketches two birds.

With a sharp pencil, I write the lyrics of "Rebel Rebel", changing Bowie's words to my own—Mum worrying about whether I desire a boy or a girl.

Ruth says, "Let's play a game, Mary. I'll draw something. You add to it, then I will, and so on."

Before the rain makes everyone run to their cars and we run the other way, she sketches a small head.

I give it her long, lovely neck.

She puts hearts in the heavens above our exquisite corpse.

Before the rain dampens mine, on the head I pencil the tight curls the pastor and his son prefer. Mum does, too.

Ruth caresses my hair. She asks to hear my "Rebel Rebel" song.

I say, "You have pretty eyes."

She says, "At choir practice, you sound like an angel."

I draw a body in a gown with wings.

Before our kiss in the rain, I'm unable to tell her. Dry-mouthed because of the sermon, the tuna sandwiches and oatmeal cookies. So I make a speech bubble and, in it, write, "I like you more than the pastor's son."

Before the rain soaks our white Sunday blouses to sheer, and we're found under a tree and denounced—"Such wickedness! Degenerate girls die young and go to Hell."—Ruth draws breasts on our figure.

I doodle a smile on our face.

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Karen Walker (she/her) writes short in a low basement in Ontario, Canada. Her recent work is in or forthcoming in Exist Otherwise, antonym, Mythic Picnic, Misery Tourism, and Does it Have Pockets.