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."

Cast

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.