ZIG-ZAG| Cynthia Atkins Don’t worry, you’ll know me I’ll be the one crouched beside myself— Jewish Yankee in a Southern town. I’ll be the one saving for the next life—                   My folded grocery bags could extend for miles. Bear with me, I’m saying this for the last time— I had been service orientated.                 I was the subject of an experiment in derision—                 The sum total, splitting apart, unrecognizable as a flea. I put out                 an all-points-bulletin, but still couldn’t find myself.                   I can’t draw a straight line for the life of me. But really, I don’t want your sympathy. I’ll wait my turn. I know how                 to suffer, that part is easy— I’ll be the one with my hands to my ears— right before a china cup                 hits the tile floor. My head gathered as a small, angry crowd. By and by, my sister loosed her sanity like a glove. I’ve faked and faked it well.                   I hear our ancestors yelling from the mental ward of hell. We are right to be afraid. It’s the job we’re here to do. I’ll be the one                     with my hands up in the air— But then, how will I know you?