Review by Judson Hamilton (@judson_hamilton)
TV in the corner
(pearly whites sparkle as our new Oral B
leftover ketchup packets
Bound. Chair. Rope.
Endless Lined "Up against the wall!"
with glitter blackened hands hours
facts of absence rendered senseless by testimonial opinion polls and
Seared white hot with
the panting of
old age and
the wet heat of breath
(there was so much ash. there was so much ash. there was so much ash. there was so much ash.)
Person 811 stood with one hand spread at the glass panel over the woman, stroking with his thumb and his ring finger the raspy spread of where her body breathed. The woman’s eyes were closed and kept on closing – innumerable lids. Her gut was stacking up at each new instant with fat in fat like pyramids. An ageless dark rouged through her shape tracing her veins. His tips ached where he could not remember before that he’d touched her, and not the other way around. Other men before him had left their mark there on the glass from the same rubbing, though the father could not smell them or defer – he could only taste the itch of it.
All reviews by Greg Bem unless marked otherwise.
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