Cara Schiff

Death for Sale He sells death. Night black pistols,brassy bullets.Rifles sardined ina car trunk. The house is plaid curtains,their dust still.  In back,swing set chains rustwithout small hands.The gate squeaks.  He hides the money in the flower pots,buckets under the sink.Plastic-covered bricks of billsfloat in every toilet tank. He stuffs cash in his couch,moving his arm like a thiefprobing a…