by Christopher Raley
Their faces beheaded by fence line grotesque laughter,
contort a bent double to disappear them then release them
back to exposure’s buzzing yellow of dirty night.
She sits in watch of small frames detailing mimicry without
and marks them a record in tickling her cynicism.
I stand in kitchen slider view of them bray back shaved scalps
and strangle long necks for a tip-up glint of darkness.
Quiet rests her pleasure she forces no perspective,
but flattens lines of emotion in comforting remove,
so let the bombard next door without a verb.
Endless is the violence, and delight is without end.
I pull the drawers for snack and pill
as lamp clicks off and her in bed.
I check the locks against a thud
and turn out light until the dark.
Her warmth is oblivion next to me,
and blanket pulled up too cold
to be but fear cutting a line
at the base of my neck.
For her I am a child.
I receive the blind worry
of what may be evil
with eyes open in darkness.