PLACE YOUR PHONE BELOW IN THE: box, bin, plastic husk, hollowed head and—
slide it through security, step forward, metal detect yourself
as our most faithful annotator fixes her notes,
caches YOUR primary glance towards the exit
in this chopped town, might deteriorates into ashy flecks
cremation proceedings of old selves – – –
like your new haircut for this day, your stripped back eyes
context carpets bankruptcy, life insurance policies
a coordinate sent late on WEDNESDAY dramatises
a jeweled balaclava elevates camp, flair
decompresses the weight of your butcher’s cut
turns this into sanguine crystals, you showboat!
go too big, get cut down, anonymity fails
employees cordon the courtroom, signal with twitchy fingers
the end of the bailbond balancing act underneath you
they want GUILTY! they want LIFE!
defender demurs, prosecution concurs
all engulf under the crop of stares
that night, you swallowed an agitated violet to divide thought
your blood tests show it still, all compiled statistics about:
a lack of consciousness, a self-defense, a heart
and they angle at you their dimwitted certificates
they claim your use of a tool, our native son
our prodigal boy, our lady of screwdrivers
did not mean any long-term damage, you assuage
deduction, destruction, a camera in your face on the stand
picking up every pockmark rendered guiltless, every muffled sound
the flashing lights play brief complement to the gavel smash
drag on an hour, a week. show us what it means
to snuff a flame unrepentant
eradicate yourself, TV judas
and confess you sought to harm
the resident
of each body.
A.R. Vaive (any pronouns) is a writer of all sorts living, working, and learning in Pennsylvania. They were born and raised all over the wonderful state of Michigan, and the Great Lakes are their favorite place to be. When not writing, they can be found hanging out with their pets, watching films, or making their brother explain complex scientific concepts to them. They love horror, philosophy, imagining Sisyphus happy, and window-shopping for things they can’t afford. When they were in second grade, a teacher said she was excited to read their writing in print someday. They are no longer sure they want that to happen. (Find them on Twitter @arVaive!)