The Prophets

by Robert Jones Jr.

Be Auntie knew it was futile by the confusion on Amos’s face. She knew men, ones in heat or ones who had something to prove, were senseless. They would rearrange land and sea to get them both to lead to satisfaction when one was enough already. Afterward, when their minds returned to them, the kind ones experienced regret, the cruel ones sought more cruelty, and the two were indistinguishable to her. It didn’t have to be some grand act. All they had to do was look at her like they were disgusted by her for the act they just committed. They get on up from the pallet and walk out of the shack without so much as a “thank you” or “evening,” not even a “beg your pardon.” She thought they could at least act like they were forced to sometimes and give her the redress she was rightly due. Instead, they left her to lie there in her own stink and theirs like doing so was the gift she was waiting on. And so often, she was just there crying on the outside and hoping that what they left inside her didn’t catch, and if the blood came, then mercy somewhere had heard her.