Claymore

Snap...crackle...pop...
changed...deranged...estranged...
and they whisper, puckered mouths lipping
he’s not the same since he got back -
sausage-casing
unmemories,
bloodless thin-skin
squeezing neck to toes,
in,
cold and tight;
sucking short little breaths,
in,
just enough to keep
his sorry heartwreck
going
no where
fast
like every night
on LP starting in the kitchen
working out to the
perimeter front hall
slightly dusty lavender
scented and saddlesoap,
snapping deadbolts home
pulling the doorknobs front
and basement
three times and the locks once more -
check -
shoving each window down
too many flat eyes inspecting
pushing the catches twice times two;
sniffing for them ?
smelling nothing again
every night, again
like half-baked
half-cocked ambush
souvenirs,
the keening cry and his pointman’s
ground up face,
tripwire, dogmeat:
front toward enemy
mother of god which way is that?

Constance Lee Menefee
Copyright 2000