Once my mother was given cancer.
The doctors laid her down in a coffin.
Then the coffin started singing
an ice cream truck jingle.
“Thanks anyway,” she said,
and climbed out into the sun.

Once a witch tried to execute my dogs,
citing zoning regulations. I let them go
by night. They returned on their own,
my hounds. Now I walk them
on long leashes through the woods.

The dental hygienists who live downstairs
are forgetful, so I dictate my past anew
each time we meet. They keep plaques
of their birthdays on their desks
to remember how old they are.

I do not know my age.
I must be some kind of god.
I walk, haloed, into the lake, showing off
in case my one true love is watching.

Kathleen Radigan's poems and comics have been featured in The New Yorker, Guernica, The Sun, The Rumpus, The Boston Globe, and The Baffler, among other publications. She holds a BA from Wesleyan University and an MFA from Boston University. She lives in Brooklyn, where she teaches high school creative writing and frequently posts doodles to her instagram: @kathradical.