Arsenic Lobster
poetry journal |
Issue Nine Winter 2005 |
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the condition of fingernails Yvonne Hortillo if only my sister's tall finger fingernail fell off its fingertip bed because of injury, i'd feel better and less disturbed that it fell off because she chewed it and gnawed it and bit it until she ate its cuticles, the last of it thinned, cracked vertically in several places, finally, one day, she came up to us asking for band aid. at least she actually yelped surprise and showed us her frayed, right middle finger. we all watched the fingernail curl like waves over purple ocean until it had had enough. i think this was shortly after our mother first left for the u.s. we are each gifted with a pair of glassy orbs each with its own lid so we can shut them at will, each with its own tear duct so we can shine them on cue. unfathomable depths tell nothing about anything you want to learn. it's in the nails: you'll see. i used to paint mine so i'd stop biting them. it worked, except that now i know what the color "clear" tastes like - mangoes, indian, with red blush otherwise unavailable except in the tropical produce aisle. |
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About Yvonne Hortillo |