From the Fishouse

Cursed be the one who makes a carved or molten image,
the work of the hands of an artisan, and sets it up in secret.
-Deuteronomy

Miss Nobody, sister
twin, I bequeath red plastic
funnels for breasts, hair
from the four corners
of my bed. For your shoe
a stone that bruised
my heel, razored blood,
a dram of jealousy. I’ll
mortar you with muck
from the River Flint, fixident,
a jigger of my lost
drawl. Everything
I hate about myself.
The eighteen-year fever
coiled in my bones, a hitch
in the lungs, left ear mole.
In your stomach, brick
of cornbread, capers.
For your nethers,
a mollusk shell, fly
trap, only part
of the story.
You’re the ache
& the cavity. Wire
helix of hair, willow
furl rigged with polyester
thread, taffeta rags,
shredded energy bills.
I’ll feather your brow
with mystical letters,
Kabbalah kitten, my
golem. Marionette,
my maker and mask,
I name you Mephista.