Bang! Backdoor slams. Trash hefted into the dumpster. Bang! Kitchen door opens & the waitress twirls heavy trays & serves up the bacon-blue burgers we’ve ordered with ketchup & a here-you-go-sweetie. The chatter of a small-nowhere-near-nothing-town fills the diner, a lulling hum. Battered fries settle in my stomach with their thick grease. Nice to know you’ll get what you want, if you order it right. The worn Formica gleams on the diner table. Suck in cheeks, press pursed lips. I pull the photo up on my device & my father glances at the stranger who made me by semen & blood. He looks up & says You should be eating fishheads & I say, What? & he says, Fishheads. & I say, What? & he says, Fishheads. Instead of burgers . . . & I say . . . Fuckheads? Fish don’t have vocal chords; they make noise by vibrating muscles. Most brands of lipstick contain fish scales. Catfish have over 27,000 taste buds all over their bodies. Humans? 7,000. Starfish are not fish, neither are jellyfish. My jawbone detaches, elongates & lowers with rows of teeth, sharp & white. In front of the waitress, stopping by just to refill the coffee mugs, drop off the check, call me sweetie one last time, I swallow my father whole.
Fishheads (or Fuckheads)
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