From “The Low Passions”


Finding Scott

Seven Camels touching on the bedstand
in a measured row, like a pan flute

with flush pipes that, when blown,
all hit one note. An eighth, unlit,


fits loosely in his curled fingers.
A few empty Coors rim the bathroom sink,


pull tabs removed. There’s no need
to check for a pulse, hold a hand mirror


for breath. I’ve worked with carcasses
the size of men. Gagged at the odor of a doe


letting go, smoked flies off piles of organs,
heard the wet rip of skin teased free


in oval sheets. I know the creature
is no longer there. No longer anywhere.
Want to read the rest?
Please login.
New to Narrative? sign up.
It's easy and free.
The password field is case sensitive. Account & Password Help.