from The Invention of Monsters / A Performance in One Act


[scene]

(There isn’t much time. My fingernails grow even as I say this. I am carrying someone’s face in a jar on my shoulders. People throw their trash in the desert. The night is dark, the knife is dark. There is no clock but I think I hear a bird. There is the caracas of a dog left on the highway, beneath whose skin another baby is born.)



[scene]

(A corpse and someone to take a picture. Everything makes sense beneath a river. No blood, just red birds. I should be born before I say anything else. I should comb my hair. I sleep with the windows open so the strangers can look in. A home requires everyone’s imagination. I will know what’s lost when I find it. None of this will help.)



[scene]

We have sex but forget to remove our Halloween masks. A stranger watches through the black slats of a chair. A nightmare, a small community or group of houses. It’s quiet in the world. One would like to know the context of this story. Someone’s Jesus reaches for a gun.

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C Dylan Bassett is the author of GHOST AS (Spark Wheel 2014) and five other forthcoming chapbooks. His recent poems are published/forthcoming in Black Warrior Review, Cincinnati Review, Columbia Poetry Review, Diagram, Laurel Review, Ninth Letter, Pleiades and elsewhere. He attends the Iowa Writers’ Workshop and co-edits likewise folio / likewise books.