Organ Donor
Whirring. Cheap fish-stained airflow and the rattle of ivory-tusk teeth. Your teeth. The gibbering, dewlapped-nosed face of a man with distended, drum-tight belly and balloon dog legs. He pushes in so close he distorts like a spoon-image, smiles bloodily. He has a chipped front tooth you recognize, and you run cottonwool tongue over wet, gummy mouth. He chucks a two-dollar coin beneath your pillowcase, where it clinks and jangles like metallic timpani against a small pile of scuttling brothers and sisters.
Grow up big and strong, he says as he packs away his spittle-blood pliers. Ready for next year’s harvest.
