by Beth Hahn

The hospice nurse said food was only for pleasure. He carried morphine and release. My stepmother wanted sweets. I gave her vanilla ice cream on a silver tray because she liked service. She asked for Jell-O. Black cherry is best. My father called her Mono. The One. Add hot water. Two weddings. Stir. Three miscarriages. Ice. Her chinchilla coat was confiscated by Customs. By the time the Jell-O set, she was dead.

Beth Hahn is the author of the novels The Singing Bone (Regan Arts, 2016) and The City Beneath Her (Regal House, 2025). Her poetry has been published by The Night Heron Barks, DMQ Review, Ran Off with the Star Bassoon, and Small Orange Journal. Her short fiction appears in The Common, RUBY Lit, Milk Candy Review, HAD, CRAFT, and elsewhere. She is the co-editor and illustrator of -ette review. Find her at bybethhahn.com.