Family Vacation by Kimberly E. Ruth

Droplets the size of tonsils,

like the child gnawing on the turkey
leg on a stick

on a bone,
it seemed.

I’ve seen scenes like this before,
in movies.

Old movies.
Similar figures

protected by garbage bags
and camouflage hats

treading through rain
forests and thick

air.

People wait in lines for food;
an eight dollar hotdog

and a hat with animal ears.

Cornerstone by Kimberly E. Ruth

I am a house
with a blown-out wall

an explosion of internal contents:

things I wish
not to mention,

like forks with
missing prongs

and shoe boxes
full of porn

I heard somewhere that the sky is a landfill

and that it is against
the law to blow up

federal property.