Prarie Moon Dalton
In the kitchen is where Mama
melts me down and mixes me up
on the stovetop.
In the bedroom, I knock out
my own teeth. Mama cries —
she made those herself.
The dog is a heavy puddle lying
in the hallway. When my eyes shut
I can still hear its wet cries.
His old friends forgot about him,
so Papa grew pistols for legs
and makes me watch him dance.
My brother dresses in stolen sunlight.
He presses his forehead to mine
and begs me for forgiveness.
I press my lips to the screen door.
I curl into the red dirt. My broken jaw
drips salt. The cicadas scream
a song I’ve always known.