My toes are soundless against the night
My heels never touch the hardwood floor,
the quietest tap dance across a room to
sneak a glass of water, a small snack from
a foreign kitchen. Open cabinets to look
for a glass and find a shelf of wallets,
a lazy susan with keychains jingling softly
as I turn it. The fridge is barren, save
an orange and a container of milk. The freezer
holds white paper wrapped slabs of meat
stickered with names in a red marker:
Natalie, 3/11. Kendra, 12/11. Audrey, 7/12.
You want me to find these. You want me to run.
I want to piece these girls back together,
want to know what you did with their faces.
I will not be your next meal, your next deer
to chase through the wooded acres behind your
house. This isn’t a movie and I’m proficient
with knives. I light a candle and set your
dining room table, fold napkins with precision,
pour two glasses of wine. I slip your necktie
around my neck, sit bare on the cold wooden
chair and wait for you, cleaver in hand.
Raina Masters has been published online in a few places, and that is pretty cool to her. Her chapbook, Cautionary Tales, is available through Maverick Duck Press, if you like what you see. She likes to read, garden, listen to music and daydream.