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Chris Schifeling, MS3

“Raise your hands

like you’re stopping traffic.”

But she can’t stop it.

Her hands hack down

as an ax chopping wood

or a neck.

This thrills me.



crawling round her arms, her back,

her cobweb skin.

Delighted I prey for more

but find none on her legs

so press her shin

which spells a plot, her plot

six feet deep.

Swelling smug with these discoveries

that never dawn

on me as death at the door

in drag,

I tear off for other houses.