Thursday, November 10, 2011

Wire Hangers

He hates them. It's not just a British thing. My mom hates them, too. And I don't think it's a Mommie Dearest thing. A dumpster in the UK is called a "skip."


Into a dumpster of wire hangers, I drop.
The ripple reaches the metal walls and bongs
like someone threw a rock against the side.

I wriggle. Rustling noises soothe, like chimes
beneath the water. I’m submerged in depths
of copper, gasp for air through metal gaps.

Hooks snag my forearms, seeking to reel me in.
My neck is ringed, not wrung. They inch down, clamp
my shoulders, shackle ankles, elbows, wrists.
My hair is tangled up like fishing line.

The twisted hangers taste like licorice,
the stale, black shoestring kind. I eat my way 
towards the surface, and in my struggle there,
I wonder if I’m bait for something else.

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