Previously published in Bloodroot Literary Magazine (Vol. 11, 4th Digital Edition)
I thought of my rapist
rising
the next morning,
wherever he may
be—drinking
coffee, his tattoo ink
turning into newspaper ink.
He’s browsing the morning
headlines. He’s got a wife,
she’s making him up
a plate of breakfast.
They live
in the suburbs, their quiet
house a puzzle piece,
in-sync with the pieces next
door, across the street.
The lawns are all nuclear
green and the birds return
meaning to tweets and everythings
fits perfectly inside
a little bubble, bursting
with this reality.
JAIMEE DEUEL-KRANZ 