just look at the fat little fingers
those crippled bodies don't lie
sitting close to the ground
whispering in scathing tones
hissing about the kitchens
tearing the insides of bones
they catch lies in their teeth
and spit on the nearst stander by
standing in biological lines
invisible tissue walls dividing
screaming penetrates
only to fall on uncaring ears
tears melt through ice
to hearts that cannot allow feeling
there is a sickness here
deeper than the skin
festering
and when the cancer comes
and when the fingers swell
and when spite has nearly killed them
they hold up their left hands
'You see? I'm married to my mother, that's why!'
not crippled yet
still have the marrow
watching for swelling and trying not to hiss
never spit...that's etiquette
still, the walls seem to be made of tissue...