[search: journals with typographical irregularities in their titles]
(IV) content the poet sleeps
Fed Up (I)
As usual, Pretty Boy’s face enters the room before he does, expecting someone to free up a seat. When none of us stands, he pouts, lower lip hanging like a ripe cherry. He’s late and knows it. To deflect attention from the clock, he tells us, one by one, how beautiful we look, how young, how sexy, his gaze so direct we could float an inner tube on the blue pool of its emptiness. When asked if he’s done what the boss ordered, he spreads his legs and leans back against the wall. I meant to, he says with a coy bat of lashes, something came up. Shifting his groin, he suggests what. We pick a point somewhere to the right of his right temple and narrow our eyes. He will have to die. We know this without ever having spoken. When we finish with him, blowflies will finally give his body purpose, his perfect face will be nailed to a tree.
Fed Up (II)
Pretty Boy forgot the shit he was supposed to deliver but he didn’t forget his smile. Come on, guys,
don’t be like that, he grins, teeth white placards lifted high at a home game. You know I’m
good for it. His eyes find each of ours in turn, offer themselves briefly, bowls of finger-food for
impatient guests. We wave him away, ask about the cash. Again the smile, even broader. He approaches us,
arms wide. We part, and he stands there like a man awaiting a measuring tape. What he doesn’t know is that
it’ll be for a coffin not a suit. Soon, he will lay in it, cold and toothless. We’ll rattle those in a small felt sack.
Devon Balwit wears many hats in Portland, Oregon. Her favorite is the one she has on right now. Her recent poems have appeared or will soon in The Fog Machine, Birds Piled Loosely, Of(f) Course, The New Verse News, The Fem, Dying Dahlia Review, The Cape Rock, The Prick of the Spindle, 3 Elements, drylandlit_press, and Leveler.