I evacuated to Texas and a piece of gravel found my eye. My mother dug it out with an aluminum

     gum wrapper.

 

A tongue is an apple that never knew the ground.

 

The state of Louisiana said I was black so I became black. I comb my hair in the shower.

 

A brown recluse bit me with its woodwind body.

 

I rub eucalyptus on my skin and think of Yo Yo Ma cradling a spider to his face.

 

Water pressure as fickle as cooking meat.

 

My twin mashed yams in a bowl and I thought of a boat full of bananas and slippery bodies. Brown

     and yellow at dusk on the dock.

 

A horse fly is a fly that only receives its wings after a mother pounds meat to leather

 

but this never happens

 

because I didn’t realize pork is red meat until my twin ate a tenderloin and I could hear his

     thoughts: “Madeleine, I’m tired and sorry I made you wait.”

 

I ran into a pole while talking to a friend. Now I have a sore patch of skin

 

and there are miracle berries that make you believe vinegar is cream soda. Please, ingest them and

     then look at me.