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.



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