published in Volume 2, Issue 1 on January 20th, 1995
The vicar points his nose at the text, But my mind slips away. The wind scatters my blankets, woven of straw, To places I cannot reach. I dangle by a thread like a spider Hanging from a tree branch. "Perhaps if we tighten the skull a bit," I hear the mechanic say. He is guessing. "No, we'll just sing and play our drums," The princess tells him. She thinks I am a banjo. The soldiers join hands And circle the light. I turn away, Wondering which of us is lost. Now they point their rifles At the linen closet. "Who's next?" asks the vicar. He shoves me into a cave And tells me to draw pictures on the wall. I draw a spider and a banjo, I draw a bedsheet riddled with bullet holes. I step back to look at my drawings, But I can't see a thing. I can still hear the soldiers Buzzing around the light. There is a flash at the cave entrance. Pushing aside the cellophane curtain, I escape into the hallway. The mechanic lunges at me with a screwdriver. The princess sits on her stool With her face frozen. The vicar folds his glasses And puts them in the case. "Good morning," he says.