Listen to Case # 4167 d, e, f, g
Case # 4167 (d)
I know you are tied up. Here is a headline for you, as you sink into a morphine haze.
Solace #2: Girl citizens got out alive without being burned: a spark, an after glow, an all consuming flesh eating fire of melty eyeballs and hearts.
It’s a solace Rory, for the rest of us.
Case # 4167 (e)
I cried for you.
I know you remember business casual,
shag carpet, but it wasn’t carpet,
it was ink suffocating you through nostrils
a roaring from
the inside out.
Case # 4167 (f)
There is still love.
He used the word trounce.
all Hybrid Blue’s love that word
the “t” and “r” similar to their word for deep feeling:
and the place of lions: Trafalgar.
he was gray scissor scarf and height
impossible, army boots, size 52
whistle blue grass tentativeness
when he’s hunting
grabs my fingerprints tries to imprint
them onto his Adam’s apple
compresses my lips on the stairs
kissing my orange and indigo
scans my ponytail for microchips
the over-sized John Lennon t shirt
he peeled off that one time
outside the bottle rocket bucket
of sound and grizzle
of removing guts with a smoldering shovel
so they don’t multiply
bury them in compost gardens
in fast food compartment dumpsters
a bell rings on repeat
calls us back to the POD
but what if another Jennifer walks through
the paper Mache door Rory?
carrying two heads
better than me
that morning in the snow:
my me time forgotten
Case # 4167 (g)
This is your account:
“Rory” was grabbed, pulled into an abandoned office supply store. Held down against loose leaf and hard white printer plastic. He said before he would shut up forever, that hands came out from a forehead. The tiny sucking fingertips touched his lips, the fingers that weren’t fingers. The electric shocks / memories jangled in his brain like pebbles / his throat closed up and then pumping breath and tightness upward and out, like his body channeled a high tech company plunger, a light dispenser for five cents a second, a mechanical torso convulsing, limbs like wet newspaper, brain blackened with squid ink a coffee bath overnight. A darkness in ear caverns, the light blinking : a human ornament.
Jennifer MacBain-Stephens lives in Midwest and is the author of four full length poetry collections: “Your Best Asset is a White Lace Dress,” (Yellow Chair Press, 2016) “The Messenger is Already Dead,” (Stalking Horse Press, 2017,) “We’re Going to Need a Higher Fence,” tied for first place in the 2017 Lit Fest Book Competition, and “The Vitamix and the Murder of Crows,” is recently out from Apocalypse Party. Recent work can be seen at or is forthcoming from The Pinch, Black Lawrence Press, Cleaver, Dream Pop, Yalobusha Review, decomp, and Inter/rupture. Visit: http://jennifermacbainstephens.wordpress.com/