It’d take out all of your teeth
and give them back
as several sets of cufflinks and studs,
slip into your body
as office white-noise
but drenched in kerosene,
sand off your fingerprints
and sell them at a dollar store,
dye your irises white and fill them in
with easter egg sketches;
its profound plainness
would feign its own disappearance
and you would believe it had left;
but the little men and women in your memories
would see it, and they would pack
their tiny suitcases, one by one.
Originally from Ann Arbor, MI, Anthony Zick currently resides in Bowling Green, OH, where he is a second year Creative Writing M.F.A. student at Bowling Green State University. His poems have been published in Dappled Things, Huron River Review, and Bear River Review. Some of his favorite activities include visiting Emerson the Galapagos tortoise at the Toledo Zoo, beatboxing, playing Wally Ball, and spending quality time with his wonderful family and friends.
