Roots

by Alexis Rhone Fancher


Hair on the head of the dead girl kept growing. Dark roots sprouted, clutched at her delicate scalp, muddied the bleached tips, embarrassed her, one last time. No, Google says. The hair doesn’t grow; the body, deprived of moisture, begins imperceptibly, to shrink. Like people do when they’ve lived too long. Like a man’s cock does once he’s come. Loses interest. Seeks a nap. A sandwich. Wants to do it again. The cops showed up before dawn. Lights and sirens everywhere. The whole neighborhood wide awake. When they knocked on my door I was ready, my bathrobe half-belted, a mug of French Roast steaming in my hand. Coffee, Officer? (My mother always said, you never know when you’ll meet your one true love, so always look your best; make coffee!) Yes, Officer, yes, I heard the screams. The cop was all ears. Screams? Plural? he asked. Yes. And loud enough to wake the dead, I said. Male? Female? I considered. High-pitched. Female, if I had to guess, although, you know. I gave him a look. When he asked me if I saw anyone else, I lied. When he asked me why I hadn’t called it in, I shrugged. Lately, things around here are going to the dogs, I admitted. But what’s that got to do with me? No one made me the head of neighborhood watch. I have things to do. I have a busy life. (“Good fences make good neighbors,” my mom used to say.) So when they came home, I ignored my neighbor’s screams. Closed my windows. Pulled down the blinds. I’d seen her come home before, two or three in the morning, bedraggled, spent. Seen her tumble out of her Mercedes and drag ass up the stairs, followed by her latest loser. Tonight, illumined by the porch light, I saw him crush her against the front door, his mouth hungry. I imagined his tongue down her throat, the moan she made when he fingered her. I confess, I wanted to be that girl, wasted, wanton, that man’s hands on my breasts, his cock between my thighs. I watched as she extracted herself from his grip, maneuvered inside. Watched her date slip in after her. Saw the lights go on. Then off. Then on again, around 4 am. About when I heard the screams. I sped to the window in time to see my neighbor, half-naked, press her face against the kitchen windows, then slip down out of sight, saw her lover slink out the door, fade into the night. I wondered if the man was still lurking, or if he’d left for good. If he did come back, maybe I’d have a chance with him. I watched from my doorway as the medics rolled my neighbor out on a gurney, a white sheet pulled up over her face but not her head. Her hair, spiked and defiant, those black roots a dead giveaway. 


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"Roots" was first published in Live Encounters, 2022.

Alexis Rhone Fancher is published in Best American Poetry, Rattle, Verse Daily, The American Journal of Poetry, Plume, Diode, and elsewhere. She’s authored ten poetry collections, most recently Triggered (MacQueen’s), Erotic: New & Selected (NYQ Books), and Duets, with Cynthia Atkins (Small Harbor Press). Brazen, an erotic, full-length collection, the follow up to Erotic, published in 2023, again from NYQ. A coffee table book of Alexis’ photographs of Southern California poets will be published by Moon Tide Press in 2024. She lives in the Mojave Desert with her husband, Fancher. They have an incredible view.