by Rose Hunter
comes in from the side
out of the black
the cars
crunch by
headlights extended a
branch snaps a
bone that cracks like
through the house on tiptoe
I think of
his white skin
and how much I like
to think that
if things could have happened
if I could have done things
in a certain way and in
a certain order and
everything perfect
the police officer understood at once
“and looking at this guy…”
with this sentence he puts a slash
through he thinks
I made up a person or
more likely I was just
conned blurred outlines of faces and
those things I used to believe
didn’t lie I wasn’t a gatekeeper
able to
ward off his rage over the
unsatisfactoriness
of everything. And he was
nothing like the snow
biting into my cheek now
but turns to this
chiffon when it hits the ground.
WILLOWS WEPT REVIEW 