Daddy’s eyes
Daddy sits at the head of the table. He doesn’t say much. Each morning Mother makes his coffee, hands him a straw. His eyes bore holes into my head, and I imagine my brain slithering out. Would he slurp that with a straw too? When he could talk his tongue cut lashes into my back leaving raised scars that make clothes uncomfortable. I glance at the specimen jar on the shelf.
Late for school I kiss him. Bye Daddy.
We dissect a rat. I pay particular attention to the teachers description of how to remove the eyes.
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