finding words for brothers is like trying to light the stove with scapulas. you chucked my kid body full of watermelon—me, (toy)dog. but i wasn’t a toy anything. feminism must necessarily kick & bite because boys (some boys) girls can’t stop. i grow into a woman who remembers my elbow (&) glass, my forehead (&) glass, my ribs (&) glass. you’re rich now, fill your rich man home with four legged structures to crack poverty against. why are you so poor, sister? there are no sorries; it’s my fault for being a delinquent teen, breaking a family (already broken), selling our acid-flecks: love-hearts not red, we—a family of five—love green. you hit girl who consumes horse-tranquiliser, girl who turns limbs into non-limbs. it’s better for girl to inhabit broken bodies. dismantled, family feeds her to the dog who paces the house’s borders—will be dead by tuesday—tangled, tumble- dried, thrashed by eighteen coal-truck wheels. twist of tibia, snout, scissor, sifle, croup, atlas, wither, pad, hock, stop
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