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Teeth that chatter around the edge of toes,
fall, forming potatoes not blessed with dirt,
sprouting human eyes whose pupils form mouths
that screech obscenities at the small blond-haired child
concentrating heavily on his rolling pin.
His tongue meets his cheek.
The mouth is so full of teeth, popping like corn to expand and fill
and splutter onto the kitchen floor,
furthering doubt.
The obscenities harden into blood and stretch
into petals that drift around the kitchen.
Each recalls a memory coming to life:
A scar cuts itself down his forearm.
Two metal plates and their corresponding screws
morph from the petals an insert themselves in his arm.
A white-haired man in a dirty dressing gown
exposes himself next to the cupboard full of chickpea tins.
No tears, his mums says as she touches his shoulder
before collapsing brain dead on the floor.
His father runs in
1950’s movie cameras implanted
in his eye sockets,
pointing at the window
screaming poison.
