By Heather Rounds
After the wedding he gave her spare parts—some greenish tacks,
a sag in the lace of her wedding slip to use for curtains. Soon, the
C of her cervix and rapid J of his thumb became spare parts. And
later, several spare parts came along as smaller versions of him,
snot in the grooves and dingy. (Despite it all, she still moved like
a lullaby.) He used the spare parts of lies to stick together the
story of their lives, offered it out to others for repairs. In time he
re-made her altogether, twisted her knobs and nicknamed her Bub.
(She hated the way his spare parts jiggled.) Her true name became
a spare part.