The workers never ate despite the creatures

nesting in the jigsaw rot of their throats, their shrunken

lungs. Father released them nightly

from the stable. They shuffled towards the formaldehyde trough

for a dip and then dripped their way to the cornfield.

The oldest, Dió, wore a face that was a motion

picture of centipedes and shifting holes. He took care

of our baby sister ever since she stopped crying.

She sat on his lap – a silent grey thing with her torso stitched tight

against the cold – while indoors

Mother banged her head against the kitchen wall.

Brain matter swarmed to our lips. She tasted

the way a rubbing of wings takes place inside a body.

She was dank. All the animals she ate in the past possessed her

as she had taken possession of us.

Father never survived the drought, but rested

for years in our bellies – with his useless rifle, his missing foot.
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