I Don’t Like Onions

by on May 22, 2014 :: 0 comments

The scar goes from here to here, she says,
pulling down her shirt at the neck
to show us where they opened her chest,
removed something with an unpronounceable name,
and closed her back up again.

One clavicle will always be higher than the other, she says.

They put me back together crooked.

I look from her uneven bones
down to the sandwich she made for me

and I don’t taste the onions.

editors note:

Unwilling to offend, the empathic altruist eats. – mh

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