The birds in the treetops are muttering ugly imprecations. I’m eight or nine again, sitting on a kitchen chair in the yard while my grandfather cuts my hair with a pair of junk drawer scissors. Stacks of bodies keep arriving from the front by truck. At one point my grandfather steps back to assess his work. With a half-shriek, half-sob, he buries his face in his hands. Even a kid like me, who ordinarily displays the complacency of a frozen embryo, has to wonder what a life is for. I see a small black spider scurrying toward the safety of the dark and let it.
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Howie Good's latest book is Frowny Face, a mix of his prose poems and handmade collages from Redhawk Publications. He co-edits the online journal UnLost, dedicated to found poetry.