Only two women in my family have poisoned their husbands. The rest curl in on themselves like dried pig ears, fish-hooked spines, walking question marks asking Is it safe here? It’s nothing but self-preservation to marry a man that looks like you–especially around these parts, especially if he’s white. That way everybody is happy. Except for the dead girl two counties up with her vagina oozing old peach, panties dangling from her ears. Two counties down Mama’s crying to know I wasted that part of the pig again. The pink lobes tasting like the version of my future where I’m found dead, gagging on a dirty sock in some field–but I can’t say I’m afraid of poison. Small saucer of old rice and bleach left out for kitchen rats. After eating, let me pick you up by your tail to look you in the eye. Is it safe here? you might ask and I’ll promise to be gentle.