5 May 2008 | Vol. 8, No. 1

The Girls Approach the Fence

by FARRAH FIELD

Detective, we think you're afraid of spiders. You'd be surprised

to know what things are in your shed. We think you should feed us.

No one will ever know. Preserves, beets—anything you don't want.

We'll put the crumbs in our pockets. We'll drink lime soda.

We won't tell anyone your middle name, that your ancestors

overthrew a Spanish dictator, that you donate funds to help build

a bridge. We like apple-butter. Your house is so brickly

and your stove so cold and lonesome for bread. We've been eating

your flowers. We'll stop if you want us to. Whatever you throw out.

We'll eat like rabbits. The tall one is a ballerina. Our mother never

took pictures of us. We fixed the shed's leaks. Before, we had to sit

on sawhorses and watch water drain through the walls then down hill.

You must've had a grandfather pass. We know about your twin brother.

We miss our lessons. One of your dogs has a deer tick. At least give us

one sheep. Flash four lights when you want us. We'll give you pieces

of information. Our mother breast-fed far too long. We want our tongues

blue with lollipops. A clue resides in a box tied with satin ribbon—

old, Daguerreotype ribbon. The little one thinks she should like

bubble gum ice cream. We practice talking to you. We think you know that.

They said we were too little to take boxing lessons. Robotics was the elective.

Aubrie likes to imagine what it'd be like to walk on carpet, to have a roll of candy

that she saves for later. Shh. You aren't supposed to say my name.