KILLER IN THE DARK
The wire hums a spinal frequency
(hold still)
A shy animal draped in black
starched sacrament.
Breathe in the piazza—
the mildew, the incense—
Where light puddles in cavities
of sampietrini.
A silver-tongued razor tucked
in the wardrobe’s dark mouth,
a flicker of faith.
She don’t hear the coal-clad wraith
The cold lick of the blade
tonguing her cheek.
Bokeh snapshot:
eyes wide as the aperture.
Mannequin pivot,
the glint, the alley grime.
The ballet of a purse dropping.
The black glove gropes for the pearls.
WAX
Dead caterpillar moustache
on a cop
sipping coffee from
a styrofoam
cup.
He says the killer
leaves no prints.
I hand him a hot dog
wrapped in tin foil.
He says put it on his tab,
then he shoots me
right in the face
with a finger gun and
a smile.
I nod.
“All we got,” the cop says,
“is a Home Depot receipt.”
He lists the items.
One roll of duct tape.
One pack of razor blades.
The total is $13.47.
The TV on the wall
shows a floor wax commercial.
A smiling woman in a red dress
and rollerblades
skates across her own reflection
in the epoxy terrazzo.
I wonder if the killer
is watching this too.
And if that makes us friends.
BLEAT
Heels on cobblestone
like hammers on wet marble.
A music conducted in terror.
My apartment is a foldout chair
and fish tank windows.
The city outside is a broken circuit board.
A red neon sign blinks: EAT.
It wasn’t me.
I get it, though—the aesthetic
impulse.
The delicate arrangement of blood
spilled, like pinning a rose
to a tuxedo.
I don’t pick up the phone.
The ringing is the best part.
A clean, sharp hole in the middle of the room.
— Kelby Losack is the author of TEXAS TEA, GOD IS WEARING BLACK, MERCY, and several other books. Co-host of the Agitator podcast with J David Osborne and Nicholas Rall. He works in construction and lives with his wife and their two sons in Gulf Coast Texas.