By Jacqueline Hyatt

Bugs like grains of brown rice shimmy up braids and bangs to the scalp and drain blood. Hailey’s hair is home to generations of mothers and fathers and babies. School nurse Candice prescribed a special shampoo. Scrub scrub scrub bubbles of poison into the louses’ houses. Squeeze those eyes shut for shower gel and genocide.

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Jacqueline Hyatt is an undergraduate at Arizona State University. A member of the Creative Writing Concentration, she writes about the complexities of human relationships, growth, and the consequences of apathy. Her work has been published in Applause and Canyon Voices.