The wind plucked me like a harp
made from fish bones.
It was a letter from mother that tore into me.
She never loved fish but was drawn to the bones.
If bones spoke they might resonate
like purple violence etched on skin.
Sister Kim recognized the reference
she was an artist. That added to mother’s ire.
We all sat like statues.
Meat was lumped on pink plastic plates
mother’s choice when she was angry.
Sister Kim’s eyes glazed over like candied yams.
In the next room the television burbled.
No one knew how mother would respond.
“Is this real?” young Hank moaned.
just the wind playing across the bones.