Don’t see me, don’t hold me. Only remind me of past thievery, of a lack less biting. The neat growing stack of unspeakable things: Tiny lips, tissue tricked, numb-limbed spectery. The exact translucence of slitted eyes and fists. Oily sluices of blood bear us into braced airways, a house without a door. Next to her on the blanket (spreading stain etc.), a surly cobbled heart.
Everywhere he goes, John the Baptist scans compulsively for places he might sleep if he were homeless. He marks street names and landmarks in a notebook. Water towers appeal to him especially. He is often mistaken for Kris Kristofferson and middle-aged women beg him to sing “Jesus Was a Capricorn.” John patiently explains to them that actually, Jesus was a Pisces. They walk away whispering cruelly, elbows and wrists scraping together. When he is particularly distraught he steals cats from porches. He returns them moments later, overcome with dander and self-loathing, eyes streaming. He vanishes glumly before the police. It is a lonely existence but he feels satisfied.
S.M. Fattig is currently living in Nebraska and pursuing her MA in Early Childhood Education. Her work has appeared in Octopus Magazine, Ink Node, and MARY Magazine. In addition to poetry, she is currently at work on textile projects involving found fabrics.