The Arm & Interspecies, poems published by Diane Raptosh

Wearing her brother’s arm made her feel good. Made her feel closer to family. It was with the hand at the end of this arm that she grazed the Maine coon, swatted the kids’ heads, thrummed the dog’s ribs. Sometimes at the end of the day, the arm had a hard time winding down. The cat would be roving outside, her husband asleep—bedroom black as a Chow Chow tongue. It would be then that the arm would reach for her brother’s boyfriend, greeting his hand. It would be soon that all of them would drop off, almost in chorus, most with no idea they’d bedded down this way, fingers so lightly interlaced.

And then there was that day in Camel’s Back Park—she remembers forgetting details—the two of them snug on the bench: She’d let her brother’s boyfriend sip her left breast. Her twins writhed in the dirt. An airplane rose like a nosy eyebrow. The brother’s boyfriend slurped. Her brother’s boyfriend grew ecstatic and horrified. Spat it to the ants. Sputtered to the snails.