The night Henry’s eyes rolled out of their sockets,
a high wind whipped grit at our windows, drowned
the radio. He caught one in the notched cup of his palm.
I chased the other through our battened shack, wrestled
it away from our thin-boned cat. These things happen:
twisters split the roots of our foundation, rust tatters
the edges of our spoons, the bell of each bowl is weighted
with dust. When I offered him his eye, smut-black and oozing,
he closed the other into my hand and said, cook ‘em.
Let’s eat real meat tonight.
Gulf Stream Magazine 