Two Poetry Pieces
Rachel Janis



If my youngest brother dies before me

Into an imaginary shoebox I fold my brother: 
the sandwich with his name on it. The killing 
rubberband. The twig his chest plays 
fetch with. Gumball eyeballs plucked 
off ice-creamed men. Marbles to dwarf. A picture 
of his eyes of my eyes of my mother’s eyes.
The wooden replica of a wooden replica 
of a buggy. His best spelling test. Shadow 
puppets for the sake of hands. Shoelaces for the sake 
of trip. Kings knifed from playing cards. Acronyms. 
Photos to throw darts at. Toothpick people. 
Woodchips. The screwdriver everyone loses 
​to the junk drawer. D-Battery. But no shoes. 

​
String man

I’m looking for something to tie around my finger. I call my local
string man to set up the appointment. “There’s several options,”

he says. So we meet. He lays it all out for me. Cheese-cutting wire. The leash 
of a balloon. A cobweb. He unlocks an ancient violin from his shadow- 

box. Plucks the strings right off it. “Catgut string,” he says. “Back then, 
​it was cattle that taught us to sing from the gut.”  What else you got?

Fake eyelashes. A split rosary. Shreds of string cheese? 
Again with the cheese. Give me something stronger. Factory-built 

doll hair. A bullet belt. A bungee cord. Out-of-service powerline. Nothing calls out. 
I’m about to leave, my finger naked. But he says, “Wait.” From underneath the counter, 

“Chordae tendineae.” Pardon? “Heart strings,” he says. 
“Most difficult to harvest outside the Poem.” He opens 

up the box, lets me at them. Yes, I say, yes. Remind me of my flesh. 
​Keep me from breathing myself apart.   

About the Author:  Rachel Janis holds a BA from Knox College and lives above a coffee shop in Galesburg, Illinois. Her work has also appeared in Booth.

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