A Desperate Plea from Your Buddhist Serial Killer
by E.V. Noechel
How could you? How dare you force my hand
to pull the trigger, then watch this tiny line
of semicolons scatter then freeze forever? It’s not even
the kill but the aftermath. Cleaning up
the bodies, I can’t escape the heartbreak
when one tiny dot and comma pauses to inspect a face
among the recently dead, jamming a fist made of guilt
and breakfast under the cleft of my ribcage.
How dare you. How dare you force your lives
into my hands. I don’t want to lie sleepless all night
hating myself, and so I decide to take on the veil
of the nocturnal predator, killing you in the dark so
I can’t see what I crush, or identify the tiny pop
that ends your scrambling, hard wired mission.
I’m not fooled by my own guile.
If you have blood, it is on my hands.
I didn’t ask for this. Why must I be your executioner?
Goddamn it sugar ants. I tried everything
I could. I would never come into your house armed
with semi-automatic poisons so why do you slither
your wobbly lines into mine? Why mock my efforts
to handle this peacefully? Still you drool
one after another and another out of the outlet
tethered to my electric toothbrush. Clearly you feed
upon blue sparks and the death-teasing joy
of watching my iniquitous madness that grows
with every. one. of your. little. murders.
E.V. Noechel lives with OCD, Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome, severe chronic pain, and an assortment of delightful rescued animals. Her work has received multiple Pushcart nominations and generous support from the North Carolina Arts Council, Vermont Studio Center, Headlands Center for the Arts, United Arts, Culture and Animals Foundation, and I-Park.
