I play with the shrunken apple heads that slither from the drain across the bottom bleeding on the ceramic of my sink They've sat in the sun too long they've stared at their leaves all their tiny lives watching sun beams crawl across their skin I hold my mother's kitchen knife across dried out skins folded over from severance of the womb They slither slowly sensing I may turn on the water blow their heads down a hole turn the disposal on mash around their shrunken brains.
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Warren Wedin warren.wedin@csun.edu