You can see my ribs coming out my eyes. You can see. You can.
I once had a dog with a girl’s name. He took the name and he shook it, like a dog shakes a rat in a field. Listen, now. The floor bends and moans like an old hip. It’s called “creak” or “crick” to my grandma, who discusses fishes, even though she is dead. To most. She sits in her oversized chair with the rough purple pillows that hurt my knees so, oh, and the delicate insides of my elbows. I curl up inside, as she hums about water temperature, about the paperclip hook, the feathers rubberbanded to something sharp that will not let go.
You can see something’s not right with my eyes – one wanders over to the corner, sulks. My sister told me, bone infection. She had been chummy with the doctor while I dreamt on the metal table. Or she was the doctor’s alter. Chewing rubber words. I scratched her double for her stupid. She whacked me like a baseball, with the broom and then, the. Feathers rubberbanded to my hair, and a fish hook, like a horn bud, right in the corner of my eye.
If you're reading this poem, please stop by and say hello. Maybe you could answer this question -- should I define the title somewhere? Should I add a footnote?