My hands are lined with white,
like I've been baking biscuits.
the air’s martini dry.
You're marrying your mistress.

High chestnut saints in brown,
all humming with the Canon.
a disappearing gown.
An open door abandoned.

My knotted face goes flat,
a tinge of greenish yellow.
I grab my baseball bat.
Kinetic testing windows.

The broken glass like dice,
all snake eyes staring skyward.
come eat your wedding rice.
My knuckles getting whiter.

My dress is sprayed with blood,
surprised I'm not that frightened.
the red on white looks good.
I stagger towards the siren.

Police lights blue as veins,
I'll burn the town to save it.
I'll feast on what remains.
That's why I am your favorite.

---

Najka Altazy is a civil servant and archivist. Under various names, his humor, historical essays, and poetry have been published by McSweeney’s, the Smithsonian, Folger Magazine, and journals around the world.