At least once a week

3 kids are thrown into the frying pan

carelessly yolked together

olive oil siphoned off

black & salt left out on purpose

the shells still have transparent film

stuck to the side of the garbage disposal    

homework crumbled like cake is there too

There is surplus salmon pink late notices

broken shards of glass

swept from the kitchen aluminum floor

overflowing for space


Footsteps and the stale aroma

of a cheap 25¢ liquor store loosie are over head

up the bannister that creaks on the 5th step to the right

The old British Victorian of 3 flights

12 kids 4 to a room

is the home of a lady missing a shoe, 2 screws of fucks to give,

and a revolving door

a petroleum shiny roach scuttles free through

the front down decrepit steps

away at last


The house still stands after the quake of 88

and a scandal of feral cats orphaned kitten’s kitten,

now besides the kids there is cat shit too
stank smells of Masterpiece boiled barbeque

sauce is washed from the walls daily as punishment,

it’ll never go,

or the kids until the year of 18

Countdown tick tock slashes

imbedded on Bangalore headboards,

but not how many inches the new-comers grow,

barely any after stunts and stunts of GMO ingest

binge fest in front of reality TV 

never turned off in a 24hour marathon

The boys of the home walk in and outside of themselves

passing pictionary cards on how to survive
their best friends are mice

whom regrettably have to be killed

once the government cheese only has one cube left

It’s a dangerous mentality for the rodents

to be friends with murders 

Some are petty thieves, crooked like the letter I

letter I crooked letter, crooked letter I—

but most are just unloved

Banged up banged on pots and pans

to rile the boys up out dreams sleep

walking to the light of hell house and daredevils

Their eyelashes boycott keep strings in bottom lashes

holding no against  the sight of each morning

when the house wakens in groans of their stomach

Each boy gets half of an egg from the stove

someone always goes hungry after rolling dice

losing chances of their only meal ticket


M. O. Mc is the co-founding editor of (Re)Vision: A Journal of Literary Transformation. M. O. Mc is also a contributing editor forPoetry International and has been published in several literary journals and magazines.  She is currently completing her MFA in poetry at San Diego State University. To read more of her work, follow her @Iam_m_o_mc.