By Larry Eby
There are hieroglyphs in the sandbox,
pigeon shit dripping down the wood fence.
There anything left in that stomach of yours?
An apple dumpling, maybe.
Some battery acid.
All rings of coins to me.
Rats bite off their tails,
leave their ribcages on windowsills.
She names the crystal balls
lined up on the porch swing.
Carpet, Meat, Vodka, Skin…
They’re like jars of children
that met the silver hook.
Then there’s Sunshine!
She rubs her temples at the kitchen table,
sucks her tongue into her throat.
She throws rocks through spiderwebs.
Laughs about it. Tells me to solder them back together.
metal conduit; guess what’s inside
Felines licking glass.
Just air, fucker.
Hard-water mineral underneath my fingernails.
I stripe the rock with yolk.