Death for Sale
He sells death.
Night black pistols,
brassy bullets.
Rifles sardined in
a car trunk.
The house is plaid curtains,
their dust still. In back,
swing set chains rust
without small hands.
The gate squeaks.
He hides the money in the flower pots,
buckets under the sink.
Plastic-covered bricks of bills
float in every toilet tank.
He stuffs cash in his couch,
moving his arm like a thief
probing a vending machine.
Fabric chafes his skin.
He sutures the upholstery
with staples.
He sells death.
Limp rabbits, gun-pocked tree trunks.
Ruptured cans glint in sun.
He sells death.
A sandal waits
for its foot. A bent knee
points to wine red drying
on the sidewalk.
Our Sunday Morning
Your voice is better than sun through a cold window.
Your words are warm socks.
Your sentences sugared coffee.
Watching you is better than clean sheets.
Over the collar of your jacket, the hair on
the back of your neck grows like new grass.
The roots of your hair always look dirty
brown against the blond white strands.
The pockmarks on your cheeks
make your face a pink moon.
I love the holes in your tights
where the butter of your thighs shows through.
I love your clunky black glasses,
the hard candy eyes behind them.
When we’re together, it’ll be the longest Sunday morning.
All white sheets, laughing, and spilled coffee.
And I’ll run my fingers on each of your scars.
Your candy eyes will shine.
Your hair will stick up with sweat and pillows.
We’ll fuzz our teeth with coffee.
We’ll write our love in window steam.
We’ll live in our Sunday morning.
Cara Schiff lives in Denver, CO and works as a professional gardener. Most recently, her work has been selected for Burner Magazine and the forthcoming issues of Emerge Literary Journal and Bookends Review.
