Postcard from the Knife Thrower
June 11 Yorkton, Sask.

These other dead are unlike me. I know how to mourn
in hammering silence. She describes what sins are not.
Why does the last word have to be amen? I’ve seen her
naked. Seen the way the truth the light. That’s why I’m
in this still room turning wine into redemption. She tells
me we’re blessed, to pray for all those unfortunate souls
who can only attempt to die.

Postcard from the Knife Thrower
June 13 Swift Current, Sask.

We are thieves and children. Everyone is asleep or ready for
home. This used to be a church. You can see where the altar
stood; the Stations of the Cross. We are unclaimed shadows.
We are unknowable friends. She pretends to listen. I can feel
her heart beat from here. I’ve had plenty of air and sea. I need
solid ground. I have no defense, have run out of stories to push
off the cliff. I’m thirsty, starved for something green.

Postcard from the Knife Thrower
June 14 Lethbridge, Alta. Canada

Some boys will do strange things thinking she will spread
her legs for them. She asks how many women I’ve fucked,
then laughs, says she doesn’t think she wants to know my
stories, loops her arm through mine. Our shadows are thick
alibis, our voices rough from memories. Don’t let go of our
lie quite yet we’re almost there. We’ll pack a quick getaway
we’ll picnic on Golgotha. We are criminals, co-conspirators;
made to be forgotten.

Postcard from the Knife Thrower
June 16 Nelson, B.C.

There are miles between us, an ocean of quietude, waves
of noiselessness. I remember St Mary’s cemetery, feel the
swell of your breasts against me. We’re too old for ghost
stories. The earth is warm. We sleep on the grass. Dream
how it feels to melt into the ground. This is our last break
before we fall apart. We’re stillness, silence. We’re alone,
together in this abandoned world.

Alex Stolis lives in Minneapolis.