Her Childhood Home
The flamingo feathers its nest with sawgrass and stones
The rabbit that visits each day at four is found dead next
To the monkey’s cage the father’s hand is far too fond
Of the daughter’s breast her bedroom carpet the color
Of just-shed blood and the mother whacks the daughter
One hundred times each night with a brush so her hair
Shines brighter than the Big Dipper in the April sky
The pet rabbit purchased after the first rabbit died does
Not last long anyway the daughter cannot ever forget
The stars are always there glaring down at her during
The day she sees them each time she faints and each time
She turns the lights off in her bedroom God’s eyes bore
Through her and pin her to the bed where she screams
For help she dreams of leaving even her turtle ran away
by Staci R. Schoenfeld
Staci R. Schoenfeld is an MFA candidate in poetry at Southern Illinois University in Carbondale and Managing Poetry Editor at Revolution House. Her poems appear in or are forthcoming from Appalachian Heritage, Still: The Journal, Hayden’s Ferry Review, diode poetry journal, and Bellevue Literary Review, among others.