• Vol. 04
  • Chapter 11


I try to hide my eyes,
to see but not be seen,
to watch steadfastly.
Nothing escapes me
so I am dangerous
with a quiet power
that others consider
as strange and would covet
if they understood.
As it is, they suspect me
and they stand back,
afraid of my body
that rots with pox.
At least, that's the story,
and it protects me.
At night in their cups,
they forget me
and speak loose words.
I hover, between the cacti,
wrapped tight against
spikes and cold winds
in rough, red wool.
I remember everything
and clutch my knife,
my Mexican blade
stained with tongue's blood,
ripped from the honest ox
for my sour supper.



My covert gaze
locates the one I want.
Him. In his fine clothes.
The one who killed my son.
He will soon eat dirt
and I will disappear
down an alley
whilst the dogs and cats
piss on his carcass
and the flies lay eggs
in his wicked mouth.