July 2005 / Volume Six / Issue Four
Sean Kilpatrick
Perfect the Way They Found Us

Just her toes poked up over the tub rim.
I entered the bathroom, holding:
a microwave,
Christmas wrapping paper,
fourteen paper clips,
the heart of a butcher's wife,
the sperm of kittens.

She tickled her pinkie toe
along the inset of my scrotum,
which was exposed because
situations in southern Michigan
remain icy, and because, of course,
all soldiers die for a worthless cause.

I finally cried "second cousin!"
and let everything come down.

When they found us, we were
best served with Indian spices
to relatives you never liked,
but always pretended to.
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