Friday, January 11, 2013

New Pattern

I walk the suburban streets.
Hands in pockets. Black hood tight
In the autumn drizzle.
            A mind no longer my own.
            The voice, the venom
            The awful mother tone.

Chains hold back barking dogs.
Instincts sharp. Teeth protect
Their tiny green islands.
            We stand our ground.
            I grunt, I growl
            They yelp and back down.

Who senses intrusion, murder,
The way birds sense storms
In the bloody summers?

Who knew it was I that came and went
Through the left open windows and doors
Of complacency and trust?

The police don’t know a goddamn thing.
Searching for me in the city,
In the summer, a man stalking housewives.
            Knives fresh off the stone.
            The blade, the butcher
            “He always cuts through bone.”

Now I walk your tree-lined streets.
Rope in pocket. Demons afloat
In the crisp autumn air.
            Yards full of quiet toys.
            New play, new pattern
            Hello girls and boys . . .

And the police will stretch further back.
And further back. Indefinitely.
Until one of us disappears.


First published in the October 2012 issue of Twisted Dreams Magazine.
Also published in the October 2012 issue of
The Speculative Edge.

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