We dollhouse monsters
dine on disco balls
and starfish,
our jowls crashing
like
cymbals,
while my baby
brother takes out his eight-ball
left eye and squints his right
to line
up his shot
on the world’s
smallest pool table.
Mother has a camera for a head;
it
flashes uncontrollably
though she claims to have run
out of film a hundred years ago,
when
father’s penis,
an unstoppable spigot,
became a garden
sprinkler,
contained by adult diapers, changed hourly,
and hourly, my sister—
shuffling
out of her hiding place
in the cuckoo clock, her hair a mess
of paper
clips, a Raggedy Ann
doll
in her arms—sighs
to pass
the time.
Water seeps through the ceiling,
because upstairs
the bathtub
overflows, for
Grandma
has forgotten
the bath she’s drawn,
and on the stove the gas is high, the flames
are
heating up a pudding
over which my opa
whispers:
boil, boil, loyal rubble,
follow
me to the end of my life.
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