Fred Giacomino

Rib Cage

Mimic, mimic, mimic, it
repeats even in sleep
like a bloated conure
perched on the aorta.

The stubborn animal refuses
to learn any language.
It speaks only with
its own strange murmur.

"It gets angry sometimes,"
the doctor replies, pointing
to hairline cracks along
the x-rayed rib cage.

The film shows no
other dark space where
the soul should be
but the doctor assures,

"Souls make bad pets."
He insists on prescriptions
and reads the cryptic
instructions he pecked out:

Spread some sanguinaria over
its bowl of sunflower
seeds and chili peppers
to stop blood feathers,

and direct the mirror
to its gaze so
the heart will fall
in love with itself.

Fred Giacomino is originally from Butte, Montana and is a recent graduate from the creative writing program at the University of Montana in Missoula. See his poem, The Drive Home, also in this issue. This is his first time in print. Read more of Fred's work at his website.

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