I saw video of the officers
assisting the woman, her mouth pasted
thickly in a growing red splotch. Their own
mouths, black holes propped open with the star
and stripe vandalized chants of skittish men.
And I thought of how we say backyard birds
are skittish; the wrens, dipping their small
heads with a quickness, a striking taupe blur.
But what about ourselves? Us featherless,
like freshly caught fish, with fins shifting here,
and two roundly white eyes unblinking there,
gills shuddering beneath a cartoonish
Viking helmet, scales resplendent behind
red and black face paint. A man – satisfied –
sitting his feet on a desk, knees dirtied
after cheerfully kneeling to a dead rat.
Lisa Mottolo is an Editor and poet living in Austin, TX. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in The Laurel Review, Santa Clara Review, Typishly, Counterclock Journal, Barren Magazine, and others.