In Poems & Fiction

Full-face and profile, rumpled and blank,

they glare into the middle distance,

some with new mistakes’ fresh pink scars,

others with the pimples of innocence.

Eyes, blue as a bruise or brown as dirt,

their faces, shallow, wild places,

like a bed where an animal might have slept

for one night.

Drunk hair spikes toward the florescent ceiling,

locker-room scent of fear and resignation,

they slouch against the yardstick’s measure,

as I gauge their height, assay their stature.

Murderers, thieves,

spouse abusers, arsonists

each sinks like a tired fish

toward the murky bottom.

The taxidermist’s docile prey.

I aim the zombie camera.

Art is of no use.

Not even a hand without fingerprints is guiltless.

At the end of each shift,

I take a selfie.




Appeared in Off the Coast, Summer 2014

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