| How Things Work The mother guides the zipper-foot installing a closure to allow the buttocks to slide in. Scraps of fabric slick the floor. The father squints his aim under the sun’s hammer, sinking the 10-pennies. Pavement glitters silver with bent nails. The daughter angles her knife along a pink translucent flange, tosses the shrimp’s head in the sink, slits thinly to expose the vein. The son squeezes what’s left inside black plastic, hauls it to the bin so the family can start fresh again. Taylor Graham
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If you have any comments on this poem, Taylor Graham would be pleased to hear them.
