Did he come like your parade
after the snow
like the one where you tell me
"At the end come the futures."
Did he stand by your campfire trying
to bare those sanded teeth,
those hopelessly sharp claws
glued to his side.
Is he cursed like your mother
your father with fish bones
your mouth to half your words.
I think we've all met him
but tell me anyway.
And take your arms out of your shirt.
That game's only fun when we've both
lost something.
Sit like a cobbler
for longer life
opening soles
like a book
Enough breathing
and you'll withstand
anything Ribs
are movable
bones
Your tooth chipped
on a beer bottle
the other
on a can
You remember
when you smile
at mirrors
or wake next
to an absent face
Ribs collapse
so reach farther
Try to open
the feet
not break them
Christy Crutchfield's works have appeared in Mississippi Review, elimae, Everyday Genius, Softblow, and others. She was recently awarded the Daniel and Merrily Glosband Award in Poetry by Keith Waldrop, and she is the Associate Editor of Keyhole Magazine. She blogs about writing and other monsters here.