medium rare

Mottled plastic soldiers straddle 

the sternum of a bottle rocket 

bound face-first with acrylic yarn. 

You rip a match at the fuse— 

hands that counted our yard sale money, 

coarse with novelty transfer decals 

—ask if I have a Chinese name. 

Our olive men pepper the van and I duck, 

your pinkies pulling eyes to temples 

crimped like the dollars your father flicks, 

his tongue papery from stale riesling. 

A hissing burger spits fat onto my laces 

I list, chew my cheeks into dimples 

pass you a soda, something to hold.