Gabrielle Kassel Wolinsky
The girl with the dragon teeth
and fire folded in her red dress
orders a coffee, black, without making eye contact.
A single mother, age forty, watches her
six year old cram cake into his mouth-
wonders if he will one day treat a woman’s body
the way he treats his desserts.
The angry teen with the neck tattoo
and shaved head orders a bud light,
gets a call from the clinic; test: positive.
A veteran cracks his knuckles,
flinches at the sound.
The man running the 2014 Boston Marathon
straps revenge inside him
like a homemade bomb.
A divorced father has a dirty mouth,
a sucker punch and an appetite
A ninth grade teacher
reads my poem to the class-
calls it a tiny murder.