https://gonelawn.net/journal/issue43/Duckler.php

I knew them better than my own family. The mother unlike any mother I'd ever experienced. Her beautiful arm clears the marble counter. Hestia. The piggish brother squeaks from his neat and orderly room. Someone has returned him to human form. Circe. He was Castor and Pollux, for they like to cast twins. The youngest, carried about emits ignored warnings, a baby repository of folk reason. Cassandra in cribs. Several dangerous sisters, arrayed like marble on stairs and couches. Tightening their hair ties. String. The fates, the fatales. Everyone coming into the room, sprung from the forehead, fully groomed. Fathers in formation with temporary allies: one neighbor, one friend, one co-worker. At night the screen is the width of my over-sized torso. My face pixilates into Medusa. Stuffing six kernels of corn into my mouth I wonder what they will have wrought for me this time. The last words of the oracle: No Talking Spring. Maybe missing a comma. No talking, spring. All my life I've wanted an altar. And a laugh track.