Kings Lynn
  Ben Ladouceur

The black dog realizes what she must
do, runs into the black of the winter
evening. To achieve a proper membership.
The decision-making process
of the body is unfortunate. Viral symptoms

speak of production, how anything
that is alive speaks. The prodigal offspring
sets sail to new hosts via secretion.
When I worked for three long seasons
in a hostel, the etymology wasn't

lost on me. The etymology
didn't wander into my heart and get lost.
Two years and five employers later
the tubercles I contain contain tubercles.
At night, I lose myself to the semiotics

of the ordeal. The comforter's feet sneak out
from under me. The window gets cold, gets up
to shut me. The bed finds me too big.
My dreams bear witness to me.
They don't know what to make of me.

Past Issues Contact and Submissions About The Steel Chisel Author Profiles