2.
Lula was child of wires.
Gumming at them from an early age,
fists twisted in spirals
crawling past off-white clumps
of nodes and tangle.
When they dangled in loops
she stuck her neck right through
bringing the it all crashing down
right on the top of her head.
There were always more wires.
At first it was just the dishes,
their thick gray mass snaked around the house
stapled at off-angles in damp corners,
under floorboards or punched through
fiberglass.
They seemed to breed, splitting,
two heads now where there was only
just that one
just last year.
Maybe even
each month: twice as many as the last.
"Until one day"
when she was not much older
"she awoke to find"
she was plugged in where she hadn't been before.
“And as time went on"
she found herself wired to the wall in every direction.
Every cord pulled whip-tight
every socket filled.
Strung up like a cobweb.
Hanging there
in midair.
Just like that
for years.
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