by Donna Miscolta
Irma clamps her mouth so that the pins press into her lips and the tiny metal heads tilt toward the roof of her mouth. She has never swallowed any pins, but she thinks of what it might feel like if she did. She removes them one by one, slipping them into the satin to hold the hem.
She smooths the wedding dress that is spread across the bed, and considers the different opportunities she will have that day to tell Donald she wants a divorce – or rather, that she will have a divorce. Despite the church, despite the social stigma, it is an American thing to do and she has been an American for nearly thirteen years now. Continue reading