This is what happens when writers go head to head in battle for their beloved genres–

Outscarring

The poem bites its fingernails—so small, so quick.

The story steadies its breath.

The novel catches itself in the mirror and sits up straighter, peacock-chested,

And the memoir rolls its eyes.

They sit around a table clouded by coffee-scented smoke.

The novel clears its throat and brags, “I’ve got a fatal car accident. How about you?”

Memoir waits for Novel to meet its eyes, rolls them again

so Novel knows, for Chrissake,  and replies, “I don’t believe you.”

Poem’s eyes dart back and forth between them.

Story says, “I’m holding a brother’s paralysis.”

Memoir raises its eyebrows. “Too bad that won’t trump a mother’s death.”

Memoir stares and Story looks away first.

Poem’s fingertips muffle its words.

“Speak up!” the rest chorus.

Poem’s mouth speaks, a quiet graveyard of headstone teeth: “A child dies.”

And no one knows how something so small can break for so long.