white fence, part 2 by Michael Prihoda

as if it wasn’t there.

            swipe of hand

                        and enough,

                        it doesn’t tumble

            it evaporates. the vanish

            of feeling

            watched. the thing is they know

                        they are being watched too

                        but they get to laugh about

                        it

                                    because

                                    they have nothing

           

            to fear from

            what is observed.

life one finger wrong

                                                            they think it’s about

                                    triggering

                        a          bomb.

                                                            rend

                                                            all

                                                            naked

until they see what you are now.

           

faceless, grown

                        from dirt

of a different name

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Michael Prihoda lives in central Indiana. He is the founding editor of After the Pause, an experimental literary magazine and small press. His work has received nominations for the Pushcart Prize and the Best of the Net Anthology and he is the author of nine poetry collections, most recently Out of the Sky (Hester Glock, 2019).