this dangerous
habitual
criminal, I
fingered soles
& pounded leather,
shaping shoes by smell
as much as by the shapes my hands
rested in when their force
reached the limit set
by material resistance
my resistance
was never material
in June, if soap
-y smell of new
flowers doesn’t lie, I said
my absent eyes
that never grew
make me no worse than you
to the young girl who asked
how much I ate without giving back
the soldiers’ feet would bleed
sooner
without me
and in a couple weeks, I was locked
with a more chemical
soap smell
and something like shit and rust
nurses, I think, told me when to sleep, and I
don’t trust the lengths of their days
so I thought it was forever
and not just eight more months
before they put me on the bus
to suffocate & burn at the age of thirty-five
Return to table of contents for Issue 9 Summer 2015.
