A Fish Out of Water

Plastic containers of all shapes and sizes find themselves 

sprawled across the yard, rather than our cabinets, no matching lids in sight

each of them housing a new curiosity: can roly-polies swim?

The answer is no, even though they have gills

—useless tissue halting continued evolution towards life on land. 

A fish out of water in a world where two little girls with 

button noses and freckles dusted all over like yellow leaves in the fall

spend all their time outside, poking the chitin casing just to laugh 

until we snort when the creatures curl up into a cuticle 

—yes, the Roly to the Poly has its own name.

One sister was always skinny growing up, so she was found often on dad’s lap.

The other discovered the word “fat” far too early, from a babysitter, and never 

looked at her sister the same. Dad’s lap turned into dad’s wallet with age,

earning her the title of daddy’s favorite, which exaggerated with the divorce.

 —my mother and I stayed in the country, with the roly-polys. 

I wish there were a shell to encase myself in on days

where panic attacks siphon the air from my lungs.

It is memories with my sister that remind me to breathe 

slowly; drawing oxygen deep into my abdomen

—never a shortage of moments to choose from.

We used to return home only when the clay 

caked between our fingernails turned to stone, 

and the mud that clung to random clumps of dirty-blonde curls 

transformed us into Medusa’s cutest statues

—my sidekick was only ever two steps behind. 

Now, I find myself more often in her voicemail than 

in conversation which, too, feels stiff as the muscles in my 

chest when her name pops up on my iridescent screen. 

I curse our parents for creating this distance between us

—no longer is this stretch solely physical. 

I don’t have to worry about her seeing this version of the poem;

She doesn’t follow my blog: where my poems take on a darker hue. 

I lace them with truth and it crawls out of the lines like a handful of roly-polies 

sneaking through my fingers. I draw blood from my scars to fill up the stanzas

—revision is key, because happiness is too hard to swallow.  -m.k.