Are some thorns, splinters, fish bones. Yes, I would love to read that one. And this poem is not one that I read aloud often. So thank you for asking, and I'm also very nervous. Here are some thorns, splinters, fish bones. Home for a pan fried mackerel dinner. My mother watches my chopsticks stumble around the Kashi. Full after a few bites, I remember a story. When I was a baby, I choked on a fish bone at my grandparents house. My dad wasn't there. They yelled out my mother, for not inspecting each flaky bit of fish I put in my clumsy mouth. Not teaching me the maneuvering of spiky slivers with my tongue. How to place the needles next to my plate, extract white meat clean. Ever since she appeals and holds skeletons above our meal, fossils before me. Still I am bad at pulling bone from fish, cutting skin from pears, which means I'll never get married. But what about the nights where my mouth drips with some gold kiwi? Looking over at my love, my lips smacking unabashedly. Me copying the furry layer in my palm and you standing over this eating it whole. What would our mother say? We laugh while I tell you this story of how whence a splinter burrowed into the meat of my thumb. And I kept it there for weeks. Told my parents the splinter came out on its own, while I hoped my body would absorb this slender spear and disappear the.