By Terin Weinberg

He collected me
in jars: my lips, two eyes, my teeth. When he got
to my brain, he split it

down the middle, threw out my fresh tongue,
kept eight toes. He tapped
my glassed lips, waiting

for what he rid
me of. He would return
everyday full

of mulberry pie and burnt
coffee, but he needed
his jars. I couldn’t see

far off the cupboard. The sun licked
my eyes at eight. I knew
if I teetered, rolled

three feet to the left, I could land
in the waste-bin. The lids
turned tight.



Terin Weinberg is an Environmental Studies and English Student currently attending Salisbury University in Maryland. She is also the managing editor for Scarab Magazine.