Shaman
You rescue a music box from Goodwill because the old woman
died who bred dogs small enough to fit your palm. No skulls or
skeletons to polish, nail to drift wood, sell for rent money. Now
the music box. Something broken. You spent months painting
the little mummy man who lives inside, horse hair brushing his
stomach until a fetus formed. For him, you collect mink pelts
and American Beauties, true finds in a dumpster at daybreak.
You pull your own tooth to bring relief, shove in the bottom
drawer. When the box is opened, the metal music teeth refuse to
sit. The song skips and whines as the mummy man faces the
sky, as the mink longs for sleep, as he cocks one eye through a
hole in the lid. It isn't even a dream; these notes climb through
the open mouth. You hear the dead keep singing.