Punnett Square

He taught her rage’s hue by casting a cloud, swilling and murky as nature’s ire, by conjuring egg shells ensconcing putrid yokes for her to tippy toe across. At any moment the sky might break,

the shell might fragment and the

anticipation

was almost as

unbearable

as that final

explosive

release.

The hue hung over men.

So she pursued women, some combination of inclination and preservation, roiling hormones and sense of survival. Enamored by but suspicious of a grandfather presumed to have mellowed with age. Who had he hurt before his bones frailed and his temper fizzled? Watchful of a brother, beaten worse than she, but of the male blood line, veins pumping wine not ruby. Would he perform the past, were he to have children?

 She lusted and loved along limbs gentle with empathy, softened by estrogen.

This, she thought.

This is safety.

Until one day the blackness blocked her vision. It came quick and curt like a hetero lunch break fuck, slapping at the shores of her self-control, eating the edges of conscience and consciousness as she replicated her father’s release.

Research revealed it was not the grandfather but the grandmother who carried the blackness in her blood, a mutation not relegated to the masculine.

He had shown her the hue but not its pattern of heredity.