If you cut my leg and peel away the muscle, there’s a family living inside. Dad aims to be a voodoo priest. He spends most of his time exorcising the spirits that try to amalgamate with them from the other parts of my body, the meaner parts. The boy siphons rye from my veins, the girl uses them as swings – little cuties. Mom tells herself not to worry, that everything’ll be a-okay. At night, when they’re asleep, I peel back my leg and have a cocktail or two with her. She asks if she can step out for a moment, just to stretch. I tell her no, stay inside where it’s safe, where there’s plenty to do. It’s hell out here, I say. Remember when I found you? The world zigged across the galaxy when it should have zagged. Now we’re all traveling down a black hole, transmogrifying into spaghetti noodles. At least you’ve still got your family, I say.
I wish I could switch with her but one of us has to be the leg.