Session two

He wanted to see every cut
from the past week.
Hesitant, afraid to show
these private things,
I showed him my arms
but kept my shirt on,
savoring the tangible
sting that came with movement.
He took each arm in hand,
turning by the wrist
trying to keep his face
but unable to mask
his disgust.
He sat back and told me
about a girl he once
treated. He said when
she was young, her brother
would handcuff her to
a radiator, take turns
with his friends.
Perhaps he was
trying to make
me feel lucky.
Now I must carry
that girl with me always.
I went home and
screamed for us both
slicing deeper
than Id ever cut


He taught me how to shoot
his hand gun when I was nine.
When the kickback threw me
hed laugh
tell me
to try again
with out flinching.
Said I had to be
a good shot
I grew tits.
He said there were
a lot of boys out there
like himself.
He said Id grow
a sweet rack
like my mom,
& taught me
to aim
for the legs.


Stoned and drunk
the futon mattress
pulled onto the floor,
I lay down and wish
I owned a gun.
Morning has come and
its abusive bright rays
slice the small room into
even sections of
pinstriped carpet
covered with ash and
spilled screwdriver stains.
The smothering silence
is interrupted by
my loud smoking.
I can hear the ice cubes melting
for a moment, slowly
and steadily like
everything else.
The visible dust floating
in the sunlight
seems peaceful and
I consider
smashing out the windows
with my fists.

Linda Wandt currently resides in the blue oasis of Austin, Texas, but has
spent most of her life in New York. She splits her time between writing,
painting and sculpting. More poetry can be found at My Favorite Bullet and
Spent Meat.

2005 Underground Voices