Mother coming home with a basket
stinking with severed heads and crying in her sleep.
Father cracking the galvanized iron sheet
shaped into his skull like a second
layer of scalp. Brothers and sisters
peeling their cold masks like plastic
wrappers from grocery meat.
Churning half-children from the soft-
hard bone, I join them in offering
all our separate pain to the god of sadness,
the god of the lost, dying families
whose solitude is a refrigerator.
We all grow tired of making
our sad art as we cringe and crawl
farther from each other,
blaming the lonely god we’ve created,
crushing it beneath our soles.