by Bethany Cutkomp
It is 1991 and John Cougar is dead
Teenagers still worry about nuclear war. Soon they will lose faith in the sanctity of baseball
And hear about cows with rotting brains
The president hasn’t played saxophone, but he will
Local radio bans satanic sounds
On account of sixteen church women in hair curlers concerned for sixteen daughters at evil alters
The husbands have not yet cried for John Wayne
Tears wring only from the post-mortem stench fogging pure Wisconsin air
Only the men without children know the difference from stinky cheeses
“Cheddar is fairly mild,” they whisper in booths tucked in diners
No one worries about poison in August
It is 1991 and mothers cry for faces on milk cartons
But their daughters cry for the death of John Cougar
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Bethany Cutkomp writes surreal and existential fiction from the Midwest. She enjoys catching chaotic vibes and bees with her bare hands. Sometimes the bees end up stinging her. So do the vibes. Find her on social media at @bdcutkomp.
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