"Did you remember to bring your naloxone kit?"

Hannah Korbee

I had a dream last night that I was doing blow off the back of a toilet seat and I looked down

between my legs into the bowl and saw a face. 


And it was my mother but she had my father's eyes or the eyes of the drunk on our corner who

sleeps outside the church and sometimes throws garbage at me, and really they weren’t eyes at

all just empty swimming pools, sad and titanic.


And I tried to flush because I didn’t want her to see me doing this but she just got closer and I

moved back, and she burst through the toilet like a fucked up mermaid or the Madonna and she

gasped then so I knew she was human. 


And I cried for forgiveness and I asked if she was going to kill me or just kick me out of the

house and she just shushed me the way that moms do and I saw through her glasses that she had

her own eyes back and then brought me to her and she was dry as a bone and warm like amber

and she said-


you know what she said.

H.L. Korbee is a Toronto based writer and visual artist. She is a chronic nail biter and Cancer (if that means anything to you). She holds a BA in Creative Writing and English Literature from Concordia University. Her work is forthcoming or has appeared in Open Minds Quarterly, Feathertale, Soliloquies, The Rat's Ass Review, and The F WORD Volumes III and IV.