End of the River
BY WILLIE SMITH I FEBRUARY 12, 2009

"I'm against the death penalty," Dad announces, "because it is insufficiently cruel."

"What do you suggest?" Beth stays focused on the afghan her clacking needles are creating in her lap.

"Castration. For starters. Testicles are a privilege, not a right."

This no ordinary night. Dad is not only not drunk, he is high on speed. He found my stash. Gobbled six Adderalls before I grabbed the bottle. I need dexedrine to clean the house. Nothing like buzzed on amphetamine washing dishes, vacuming, dusting, mopping, scrubbing the toilet; especially if you guzzle coffee while performing these acts of domestic insanity.

"When I say castration, I mean global castration: once the testicles, penis, prostate have been removed, excise the appendages, chop off arms and legs, pull all the teeth. Make recidivism impossible. Force these people, with the best treatment available, to stay alive. No living will for murderers!"

The Great Poet has constructed a boat out of a failed haiku, now sends it down the Eridanus. "Phaeton, the Sun's son," he stares into the dead TV, "fell into the Eridanus. Because he could not control the horses of the Chariot of the Sun. Thus the Eridanus rids us of all efforts that would otherwise too recklessly continue to fly."

I let on that Dad is flying out of control right now, too. Beth huffs up out of her overstuffed. Drops her knitting in the chair. Snatches the pink vial off the TV. Feeds Dad another red, rubbing his flabby throat to make sure the cap of Lilly's finest goes down.

The baby screams. The baby screams a lot—ever since Beth pared his penis down to a blueblack sliver. She was mad that night at the Great Poet. The shape of the baby's glans always reminded her of the Great Poet's slick fat head. So she scraped away much skin, cartilage, nerve.

Beth really wants to be a good mom. It is our fault—we three hypothetical fathers. The G.P. too remote; me nebulous, vague, better dead than bred...Dad still worth his monthly pension, but too addicted to word salad compounded with vegetative behavior to make a good father.

So we just let her pare the baby. Not like the race needs to go anywhere any more. Birth control may as well start right outside the womb.

"Death is too good for murderers!" Dad yells, eyes squinted shut. "Hack off arms and legs! Use money saved avoiding the death process to hire Welfare mommas to care for these human beans. They look just like beans—torso, neck, head; lop off shoulders and hips, round 'em out. Oughta blind killers, too. Rip out tongues so they can't lick anybody to death..."

I think of Achernar, Arabic for "End of the River," brightest star in Eridanus—nondescript, lanky constellation dangled off Orion's foot.

"Phaeton's sisters gathered on the banks of the Eridanus..."

"Anus burn every morning—feed 'em jalapeños at night. No teeth, no tongue: Welfare momma nurses serve murderers smoothies—bananas, ice cream, jalapeños..."

"...to mourn smashed Phaeton. Their tears become amber, they themselves morph into poplars lining today's Po."

Achernar quite a sight—eighth brightest star in the heavens. Can't see it from Northern Hemisphere. Lovely blue blaze at the river's end, at the edge of Hydrus, the Water Snake.

Beth disappears into the bedroom to care for the infant. Every evening she religiously applies aloe to the wound. Tonight Dad's impromptu overdose made her forget.

I remember something, too. Snap on the TV. Fish for that channel where insect love happens. Reel the waves in; leave volume off.

Looks tonight like hardcore praying mantis. Maybe closeup of Momma mid-orgasm chewing off hubby's head...

Pick the afghan off the overstuffed. Rub cotton knit over groin. From the bedroom the crying stutters to a stop. Gitchygoos and gurglings succeed.

Beth insists we each masturbate to climax at least once a day. She doesn't want any more babies. Blood swells my tube as the small male creeps up on the virgin bug's cloaca.

Dad mumbles something about victim's family encouraged to drop by to ridicule the beans, last words drowned in a snore, half-a-dozen seconals finally kicked in.

"Down the river a boat floats," the Great Poet quotes himself, "to the identical nowhere I sit."

Turns away from the tube, having already today performed his duty. Begins the task of hauling Dad up to the attic to strap him back into the rocker above the bedpan.

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