"The Murderer Next Door"
1.
In my dark infancy are rooms of infra-red,
blankets of sound-proofing that hide
an infant’s cry.
Inside asbestos skin, I hear blood
pulse through my temples like heated air
through stainless ductwork,
the whir of advancing film inside
my camera skull.
I dig blood-rusted nails into my ear canal,
scrape the grit of scabs, try to free myself
from the deep noise--like ants in their burrows.
2.
I followed him to Idaho, found another job cutting hair.
He drove me out into the wilderness, one of the places
at the ends of gravel, lays me on the hood of the car.
Afterwards, all I remembered was the river hiss,
the rush of blood between wooded banks.
It was a long walk back.
3.
It doesn’t take this one long
before a lean of the shoulder into my breast,
the shift of an elbow grazes my crotch.
They all think they can hide under the cape
as I snip away at their hair.
Close below his very clean ear (some ears are like old snot rags),
I concentrate on the slight movement of the artery,
a tube of spit,
sausage of sewage,
exhaust fumes trapped in a wine bottle,
tornado of voices screaming to get out.
I want to take these scissors,
and dig out the sound, the ear wax,
break it free of the darkroom,
expose the negative,
become the photograph.
He leaves me
a twenty dollar tip.
© 2006 Steve Williams
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