Emily E. Daniel
WHAT WEAPONS
I wore a blazer because it’s supposed to be a way of donning power—
yes, it feels as if I have gills for ribs and buried beneath them is a shiv
formed from the femur of the business owner who signs my paychecks.
I let him live but replaced his limb with particle board.
He stands cock-eyed over my desk but can’t ogle my body
under this blazer. I smile like I’ve bitten into his crepe paper flesh,
my teeth flush with pink. I yawn because I’m bored but do not raise a hand
to cover it. He can see the lift of my uvula, hollow of my throat, its unknown
howl. I wait until the end of the workday to send an email—no body,
only subject: Fuck you very much. The next contact will be from my lawyer.
But I don’t have a lawyer, do I? Would have to skip rent to pay the retainer,
and that will only get me through the discovery consult where they’ll tell me
I’m going up against someone who can afford to litigate me to death. Call it
hearsay, harmless jokes. I hold pepper spray, snarling past the statue of Jesus
on 107th Street, his right hand severed cleanly from his concrete wrist.
We’ll never know if it was a closed fist or if it once had something to offer.
I don’t want to hit any arteries, just a thin slice through the wattle,
another opening for his cry.
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