—SOMETIMES IT REALLY IS LIKE RUNNING WITH SCISSORS

 

 

Trap

 

We live on 

the razor’s edge 

by a rusted pock mark 

in the shape of 

a warped heart,

twins without conviction. 

When Sis says, 

“It’s time for supper,” 

I hold my mouth open 

while she drops a dried toad in.

Mother undoes the trapdoor lid 

every eight hours. 

Sometimes she’ll cackle down at us,

but most times she’ll just piss.