Dana Guthrie Martin

I

From the Killing Lines

I. Rapture

 our pillow-bitings our backstabbings

 our recreant pin-up faces

 (crush-cheeked / broken-jawed)     listen listen:

 the blistering by oil by groin by shadow-meanings   

 when did you touch us     and where     what recollections

 what summoning       with whom         how many times

II. Meat

 hung-blood hook-marked leaking valve pool    

 slow-ground pressure-cooked regrets    

 flash-frozen roil     hush-toned    

 (listen —    )

III. The Dead

black-going and blind-floating   like tracers        like minerals

electrolytic and palpable    what exit    where   the light is not

what we expected:           immaterial earthbound debasement

this cleaving   this butcher   this hacksaw   fingers into tarpits

(damn singsong)     our groaning hearts like blood diamonds

IV. Inspection

a solid hand     anchor-weight     killing line

razored fishnets

ossification — that white wonder

fish-wounds   bloodless   the dying eye

(look harder:  marks  /  the infection)

what are you looking for

anything that will hold without leaving a scar

The Apocalypse Occurred in Your Bread Lethargy

We wedged you between the drainpipes.

For that we are sorry.

We take no responsibility for your malformations

Or the involuntary twitching.

Wasn’t it you who used to whisper

What you’d seen on church signs?

Your voice quivering Fall Leaves, God Doesn’t.

And When You Fall, Pick Up the Bible.

We don’t fall for that shit around here.

When we took you to church

They had to stroke your throat like a bird

Until you accepted communion.

You nearly wet yourself with fear.

Like hell we’d ever show our faces there again.

We learned you were best in small spaces:

Everything in reach; just enough light

To see your imperfections.

We learned how your nails sounded

Against plywood and laminates.

Ever stop and think how hard that was on us?

Your scritching left our backs raw,

Roughed up our throats. Where are your apologies?

When we found you eating soup crackers

And singing to Jesus, we had no choice but to lock you in.

Dana Guthrie Martin lives and writes in the Seattle area. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in several journals, including Fence and Boxcar Poetry Review.