Thursday, September 02, 2010

The beaker

The beaker

is full of thick, dark blood.  Silence!
Mother stuck a clothes-hanger up her nose
trying to unclog the vacuum cleaner.
It was full of scarlet pimpernel.  Father fainted.
She asked one of us to call 911.  The fireflies
are drunk, they’ve forgotten the path
to the sun and bleed in a cave near a cliff. 
Silence, mother fears the chafing in our stare.

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