The Fugitive Is No Longer Believed to Be in This Area


The scars look like they belong there. I intend to reproduce. I understand how easily
you could think your children will like you.
There’s mildew in the voting booth. The candidates aren’t available for comment.
The candidates were elected to the majority before they ran.
My testicles no longer make me nauseous, so I’m dating again. I don’t want to get a
flu shot.
The smell in the hallway is no longer annoying.
Mildred really is her name. She’s an organ donor, but hasn’t had anything removed
yet. She caught me with her cousin. It was an accident. The tramp. He wasn’t very nice
about it.
My neck has straightened since I hurt it. I can’t touch the ceiling.
I had a dream about Delacroix, with wounded horses and a rabbit. There was a
painting green with blood. Mildred was holding a barber’s basin under her tribute to
Delacroix’s beribboned lance.
I didn’t know where the interview was, but I knew it was right now.
And I had a dream about roses in which there weren’t any roses.
I no longer have any reservations. You don’t need them if you aren’t going
Now I’m having a dream about interrogation. I’ve already been elected to
fatherhood with a single vote. Mildred is bleeding into her soup bowl. I’m dating again.
Mildred is singing, “Which child is this?” A dying rabbit had already interviewed my
testicles. I’d been shot, so I donated one. I was being reproduced, so I answered honestly.
I’m gone, but the scars look like they belong there. They set me free to find him.

Rich Ives is the author of Tunneling to the Moon: A Psychological Gardener’s Book of Days currently being published in serial @ Silenced Press everyday in 2014 and forthcoming in paperback. Begin from the beginning, catch up, read daily. Just refer to the Burrow Guide.