2 September 2004 | Vol. 4, No. 3
He could find no better word for life
than flat. It spun out from his mind like tightrope:
his height, weight, age,
sexual proclivities, small fears, vague fears,
stultifying horrors. The count of freckles on his hand,
the number of operations—his one true hope. All his
life had organized itself,
done in by its own weight.
He would walk to the same bars
in the flatfooted gait left him
from the box that was his office,
stare down at the puddles lining the street
in mute appraisal,
and trace the cracks with his eyes.
There he would drink
until his mind swam in velvet
and eventually, he'd lead a woman away
into the black pit of his apartment,
watch in surprise as she was eaten by the shadows,
devoured limb by limb,
and spat back as a crystal—
bright, shining and untouchable.
About the author:
Matthew Heil is a secret poetry lover, who works as assistant editor for Echo Magazine, Arizona's largest GLBT publication.