izzy

the ‘clock clock clock’ of your bones follows me around
tied to my ankle with a little brown piece of string

we can sit quiet together for hours on end
in parks, cafes, libraries, laundromats, living rooms,
on buses and trains, in cars and planes

we even went to a house party once,
sat tight in the corner until the music was loud
enough to cover your rhythm on my feet

*

sarah

he thought of his eye grown huge and bulbous in the gunsights
as he squinted down his arm to his triggered fingers
a little sticky from the afternoon’s watermelon, dirt-smeared at the tips
pointed at the shitty incontinent family chihuahua
crouched stupidly in the corner of the verandah, shaking slightly
more out of habit than need
he held his breath and fired three finger-bullets at its little fist of a head
imagined his mother wiping brain-splatter from her Christmas paper hat
and smearing blood across the bad joke bonbons
he was chartering the probable spill of skull splinters when the dog shifted its gaze
from the honey-glazed ham to him, and its little beetle eyes lit up
its ears pricked forward, its tail went to wagging, wagging so hard its butt jiggled
grinning at him with all the love of an old dog for its family, blissful and obedient
he waved away the blue smoke his mind had streamed from his fingertips
and stowed his hands in his pockets, sheepishly
the thick syrup of shame sliding down into his guts as the dog licked his knee

*