She dreams of it on special occasions.
James Lee, "if"
Usually it decomposes quietly, mobster corpse
stashed under the brain's wet cement,
raccoon cadaver in the moonlight
on the potholed shoulder of the royal road,
heaving with maggots.
It thinks in maledictions. It hangs itself
in the closet and waits for her to come in.
Its head turns toward mirrors. Light moves away
from it quickly and pretends they've never met;
dark gets stuck inside it.
It obtained an advanced degree
from the School of the Americas,
where it always got extra credit. It hums
to itself frequently; off-key renditions of Puccini
or Led Zeppelin.
It used to give her ideas,
which she acted upon when the opportunity
presented itself, until something else told her to stop.
It wants to hide a weapon in one of her body cavities.
Be Preemptive is its motto.
It hates the medication
that keeps it silent, gag of wadding
ending in zine or zone. When it reanimates
and wades out of the flooded culvert of her nightmares,
it knows why it has been summoned.