in the bottom drawer of a French oak dresser, crouching in the naked white-walled cubicle I call a bedroom. It may lie beneath 20-odd open packages of violin strings and post-concert photographs of classmates boasting popped tuxedo collars, or even below the decapitated heads of faux sunflowers and lemon-sized Buddha figurines frozen with laughter. Be on alert for the plastic cartoon bird whose propeller tail may spin in the direction of a crumpled sheet of notebook paper plastered with doodles where bug-eyed horses sit upright and smoke American Spirit menthols till they’re dizzy-stupid and bitching about their horse-wives and horse-bills in between sips of Folgers coffee which is fantastic and exactly why I’m asking you to help me find it.
sheds his skin, walks upright, no longer a lizard on the A/C unit, blending in. His fingers are toying a plastic knife, the patch of white on his tongue. His glasses are Burberry. He stares at the swarm of flies trapped in a bag of vinegar, dangling from a picket fence, and keeps wonderfully still. The hand is terrified and cannot finish this poem.
Zach Weber is a writer and musician currently residing in Houston. His writing can be found in Runestone, The Blue Route, Glass Mountain, Silver Birch Press, and elsewhere. His music can be found nowhere.