pity

when i cannot express
those deepest of feelings,
expect me to deflect
and instead opt for pity.

for i cannot share
how i truly feel,
i forsake help
in favor of attention.

yet i can admit it here,
i hope you dig deep enough,
uncover the poisonous root,
and eradicate it.

i am not special

i am no different from the others
to whom you said you loved
and gave your heart unto
as you did with me.

true, i may be different,
perhaps i am nicer,
or possess some quality
you've come to desire.

but unique i am not,
so i implore honesty
and beseech you thusly,
to please not pretend.

you lie next to me tonight
while thoughts of doubt
swirl in the air around us
spreading uneasiness.

your past has caught
up with us again
as is its habit of doing
when all is going well.

repressive emotions
bear physical weight
as if pushing down
upon my soul.

our fingertips touch,
i wonder if you're awake,
and pull my hand away,
confirming the accident.

doubt supplants certainty,
answers become questions,
thoughts of who i think you are
dissipate like our love.

cocktail

i've come to despise the winter,
how the clouds darken
shortly after i'm released
from the daily monotony of my job.

i return home, yet it is not one
bustling with laughter of children,
nor of a warm meal to share,
or the closeness of another.

i collapse on the couch as the
wind howls its way inside,
the technicolor flicker of my tv
the only noteworthy stimulus.

crushing them all up,
prozac, paxil, zoloft,
swirling the powder
into a glass of whiskey.

i succumb to the numbness,
let it wash over me
just like the howling wind,
a soundtrack of my life,
in what i'm hoping is just a single.

I decided while I was in the shower to use some of her bath soap she left over. I think it had the words Desire and Love in the name. I had just stepped out of the shower when I heard the phone ring. I snatched my towel and raced downstairs to answer it.

She was standing behind the counter, twirling the phone by its cord in one hand and the spare key I gave her in the other.

"At least we know it works," she said, coming closer.

"Ever heard of trespassing?" I joked.

She smiled, leaned in, and sniffed.

"Mmm, you smell like me," she said, and kissed me.

1%

I lean back in my reclining sofa,
full-grain leather, Indian import,
and light up my 90 inch LED to the news
only to see protesters out on Wall Street.

They've been camped out for weeks,
speaking out against financial inequality,
slamming rich people and their fortunes,
pissed the fuck off... at people like me.

I won't tap dance around it, I'm well off.
Attended Harvard Business on my father's dime
Graduated top of my class,
before being sniped by a consulting firm.

Now I work 60 hour weeks, if I'm lucky.
I get up at 5 a.m. each day, drive to Starbucks
and order my usual over-priced beverage
alongside whatever breakfast treat catches my eye.

When you have this much money
you don't think about how you're spending it.
In constant search of comforts and higher quality,
there's no price tag on having the best.

So the 6-figure luxury BMW I drive around?
I do it for the 15 minutes it takes me to go
from my driveway to my office -- as a sweet reminder of
why I'm working myself into an early grave.

So yea, I'm rich, and eat at fancy restaurants
when I can find the time and hire someone
to clean my place before I get back at 8 each night
just in time to kick off my Gucci loafers and watch TV.

My blood pressure's also 140/90 and I'm exhausted,
all side effects of a high-pressure job that involves
multi-million dollar deals and pissed off CEOs,
livid at the idea they need me to fix their company.

It's true, I make in a month what the middle class
manages to amass in an entire year -- 50 grand or so --
and I go through it just as quickly,
filling every blissful moment of personal time.

But that guy making 50 to 60k who gets his raises
a thousand dollars at a time over 40 years?
He's probably happier at this very moment,
despite what some pissed off folks on TV say.

escape

inside you have routine,
familiar faces and activities,
an expectation -- if ever so dull --
of what tomorrow brings.

once outside it's nice for a year or two,
you can enjoy the sun and sky.
but losing an edge breeds complacency,
and to survive you must be paranoid.

emotional bars replace physical ones,
as you're forced to abandon loved ones.
you come to the soul-crushing realization
none of your dreams will ever come true.

the pain inside comes from know you can't,
and outside from knowing you never will.
it's true i've busted out,
but i've gained anything but freedom.

café

the two vieillards sat at a café,

having a heated argument,

the matter of which was trivial,

something you probably wouldn't understand.

suffice to say one was winning,

punctuating his every remark

with another bite of Stella d'Oro.

a French biscotti you've probably never heard of.

like a storied Musketeer of old,

he eviscerated his opponent's rebuttals

and took a sip of his dark, dark roast,

not as good as my own, but perhaps decent on its own merits.

the loser gave up in an ugly display of frustration,

and it was then i just could not help myself.

i deftly grabbed my home-brewed coffee, walked over,

and proceeded to tell the winner why he was wrong.

intra-

we have lost touch with what matters,
opting instead for the cheap thrills,
instant gratification at entertainment's mercy,
constantly seeking the next digital narcotic.

life has transformed from a survival game,
to one where we battle against boredom,
seeking to fill every second of our lives
with a dizzying array of stupefying stimuli.

so few now practice introspective thought,
that which provides self awareness and humility.
meditation, even at its most basic, is withering,
and with it our sense of global unity.

how can we understand the world,
when we barely understand ourselves?
how can we begin to talk to others,
when we've yet to talk to ourselves?

i-85

my memories play in slow motion,
when i think of our time together,
small details become vivid,
a strand of hair on her face; her laugh.

driving my old pickup down the interstate,
her bare feet on my dash,
burnt orange of the sunset at our backs,
wind filtering through cracked windows.

george strait saying for us,
what we couldn't say to each other.
we were the picturesque young couple,
fumbling in ignorance, yet innocence.

for there is something to be said
of the process by which we each learn to love.
some only have to go through it once,
while others, like me, must endure loss.

night walker

walking late at night
through my complex,
i make stories for people
based on the lights i see.

for i surely won't peek
in their window;
my gazing -- nay guesswork --
is done from a safe distance.

a living room light on
at 11 p.m.? mom or dad
works late; the kids
were kept up for dinner.

flashing cool, blueish lights
radiating from behind blinds?
a single someone, to be sure,
waiting to be taken... by sleep.

dim lights flickering from
the whirr of an overhead fan?
surely it's two lovers, wrapped
in each others arms, safe, secure.

when i get home i ritually turn on
the tiny lamp on my nightstand,
just enough by which to read,
and wonder what another thinks of me.

frenchmen street

cacophony of sax and trumpet
waft through the air
like a wonderful smell,
but pleasant to the ears.

steady hum of life,
a slight buzzing, vibrations
that reach inside you,
like an oscillating soul.

involuntary tap of the feet,
wagging of the hand
to the beat of the music,
the succinct syncopation.

i stop where i am and look;
i see inebriation, but also
a kind of willful bliss,
for which ignorance is not to blame. 

indeed, some people come here
and can simply 'get' it.
while i'm all for new experiences,
i'm not sure yet if i'm one of them.

betrayal

i let her inside where none had been before,
sharing the deepest parts of myself,
any semblance of privacy removed,
any notion of filtration purged.

she settled on my heart
like a bird in a nest,
only to fly away, away,
at the first sign of winter.

bitterness and anger replaced
her love and warmth and kindness.
toxic thoughts of self doubt
transplanted those of a bright future.

in a fashion others would deem tragic,
i secretly always wished this would happen.
a broken part of me simply longs to hurt,
to be destroyed so fundamentally.

my only solace comes from the day
when she realizes the gravity of her betrayal,
and exactly what she's thrown away --
and how grave a mistake she made.

a single leg hangs
over the side of the recliner,
dangling -- back and forth --
in sync with the grandfather's pendulum.

ticking down the minutes,
until the pain finally stops,
his face fades from memory
and her heart begins to mend.

a blank face and unblinking eyes
gaze transfixed at her
out-of-focus leg, going back and forth,
before she falls asleep.

staring out the fifty-fourth floor window
of a tokyo skyscraper as the rain fell
and wet the streets and people below,
she pondered what would come next.

the only light a small lamp,
sitting on her office desk,
offering just enough of itself
to faintly reflect her melancholic expression.

how small my own problems seem,
compared to the dilemma she faces.
how silly were my trials of yesterday
when juxtaposed with hers.

my confession

the temptation was too great and,
knowing the consequences,
i proceeded to do it anyway,
succumbing like only a weak will can.

i devoured everything in sight
and overturned rocks
to try and glimpse just a peek
behind the curtains.

what i saw now horrifies me,
haunts me with images and
plagues my waking moments
with what was better left unknown.

the aftermath has been brutal,
rocking my emotional foundations
and leaving me doubting my life,
where previously there had been only certainty.

when i needed you

here i am, when i need you most,
and you are nowhere to be found,
silent and incognito --
deaf to the pleas i'm screaming.

this might be another time too many,
the one that ends it all for me,
sends me spiraling downward
into a deeper pit of despair.

if only, is what you'll say,
if only you made the time,
if only you had realized then,
all i wanted was to talk.

the others

you had so many others before me,
who treated you like a simple fuck,
some fun to pass the time,
and i guess it hurts you felt the same.

it means so much more to me,
the connection, the intimacy.
but you lay on your back for them,
even when you knew it meant nothing.

it wasn't that you were cheating
in those years before you knew me,
and yet i can't help but picture
the lust you held for the others.

it hurts more than you'll ever know.

vultures

they surround you on your death bed,
like vultures, circling above and
hovering -- ever hovering,
waiting to swoop in for the kill.

spouses and children,
their children and so on,
each additional one
serving as another grim reaper.

even in the midst of it all
they think of themselves,
their own mortality,
when they look into your eyes.

two words

it's actually kind of funny,
how two words saved your life,
kept me from finding where you live,
and putting an end to your life.

for make no mistake about it,
if only i knew them,
i'd track you down
like the dog you are.

i might opt for harassment first,
slashing your tires, or perhaps,
making your life a living hell,
before revealing myself - the one behind it all.

oh yes, i would become a gun owner
and make weekend trips
to the shooting range --
if only i knew your name.

his wrinkled hands leafed through the yellowed pages of the photo album.

his thumb rubbed over her face as if petting a cat.

she passed a year ago, and now, for the first time in many, many years, he was alone.

he looked out of the window to the sea at the bottom of a cliff and reminisced.

pleasant memories -- that's what made them so painful. seeing her smile and hearing her laugh for so many years. and now, gone.

turning the page he sees the wish list she wrote in her 20s. how long ago it seemed.

on it were the dogs she wanted to own. she never did get all of them, but would never have given up the ones they ended up buying together for anything.

he began to cry when he saw the line where she vowed to marry him. he remembered when he first found the list -- after they'd married of course.

all the places she wanted to visit and live were also on the list. new york. france. even alaska.

she never did get to live in any of those places, or in any of her dream houses.

so when she passed, he went searching. he found a three-story with a wrap-around porch and an accompanying swing that she'd never get to use. the back door lead to a lawn and stairs tracing the cliff down to the sea.

it was just as she described in her list. what she always wanted, always dreamed.

this was where he'd live the remainder of his days. desperately holding on to the very idea of that which was her.

falling out

i do not conjecture two partners
can simply "fall out" of love,
but rather they lose the will,
to put in the required elbow grease.

for falling into love - true love,
is an uncommon happening,
and while far from being affliction,
it can be just as hard to shed.

vehement feelings linger like ember,
waiting for a spark to ignite them,
rebooting the oft majestic process
of falling in love - again.

indeed, it is not a falling out of love,
but a coming to terms with it,
realization that, like all of nature,
it is cyclical, recurrent, fluctuating.

day by day

apprehension swelled within me
until i contemplated running,
far away from this opportunity,
from the chance to fall in love - again.

the sting from past relationships
was all too raw on my heart,
which yearned to heal with time,
but also give love another chance.

i regret the impending trepidations
i will subject my lover to,
knowing full well it is not their fault,
their only crime being falling for me.

deep down i pray they stay,
are patient enough to wait for me,
to one day unfasten the latch on my heart,
heretofore impeding unconditional love.

they call it the honeymoon phase,
and it goes on for months or weeks.
a spike of pure exhilaration,
when new love hits its peak.

our very physiology morphs,
chemicals release in our brains.
yet this ever-quickening pace,
is one no one can maintain.

indeed, there comes a time,
when a decision must be made.
else routine becomes the norm,
and the love slowly fades.

when you come to know a person,
truly, inside and out...
and you accept what you find there,
then it's love -- have no doubt.

because if they are to be yours,
even their habits and their quirks,
then you must realize, my friend,
that sometimes it takes work.

(you can't) be mine

i lie face down on the couch
as the clock ticks to midnight
marking the beginning
of another valentine's day.

my fingertips brush the carpet
as my eyes blankly stare
catching the lamp's light
refracted by an empty wine bottle.

abandoned headphones emit music
faint, far-off, distant
much like this surreal feeling
of being alone, without you.

while i hate you for what you did,
all i can remember right now
are the chocolates and the roses
you bought for me last year.

spinning

this is not something i planned,
to have my world flipped upside down,
experiencing otherwordly sensations
that i never even knew existed.

i cannot confess honestly enough,
how long i've waited - and waited -
for not only someone to hold,
but also a genuine, happy, relationship.

the kind where i can be myself,
without fear of any reprisal,
because the one i care about,
accepts me in my entirety.

so, while it was impromptu,
i would not trade it for anything,
except perhaps for the chance,
to fall in love with you again.

perilous life

i knew she was a risk,
or, at least, did risky things,
involving risky situations,
in which only the young partake.

yet still i built something with her,
thus painting a target on my heart,
even though my hope was tenuous,
like a trembling house of cards.

sometimes late at night, silent night,
i imagine the worst occurring,
stay up thinking about how i'd react,
scare myself with what i find.

my blank stares while i think mirror
the emptiness i conjure would exist,
and when asked if everything's alright,
i tell my most common lie: "i'm fine."

Chimera

Chimera

“Where had they put her again?” thought the short, elderly woman. It had to be somewhere back here… sheesh, all these changing rooms and you can never find the one yo—ah!

“Oh, Rory, they’re almost ready for you dear,” she said as she approached the door. “Rory? Did you hear-”

“…ever again. We can finally be happy. Just think of the peace and quiet in a new home, where I can do all my research! We’ll be so happ-” Rory quieted abruptly as she heard the door creak open behind her.

“Oh, I’m sorry dear, were you on the phone? Well, they’re ready for you! This way, this way!”

---

ACGTGCTGACTG – Prominent DNA sequence from head hair. Some variations.

Quiet chatter permeated the lecture hall as eager attendees indulged themselves in the buzz surrounding the event. Normally only a handful of graduate students and prominent alumni would attend a biology lecture at the local university, even when it was given by one of the most eminent scholars the school had ever seen graduate. But when something big catches wind in the small town of Prairie View, even the peaceful, quiet types can't help but stick their noses in it. So construction workers still in their work boots, waiters still in their aprons, and, yes, even some undergrad students, packed the auditorium as if it were a Christmas play.

"I can't believe what she's been through, I mean with the cancer diagnosis a few months ago and this whole thing with Skylar."

"...really think he killed himself?"

"Personally, I don't know how she even focuses on work. After something like that happens, and then to have the cops..."

"...know what she's even talking about tonight? Shit, ain't no bunch of idiots in this town gonna understand any of it."

"Dumbass. If there's one thing this town'll eat up more'n Dean's fried steak, it's a good old fashion gossip about a murd--"

"Shhh! She's walking on stage!"

While the lights above the gossiping crowd dimmed along with their hushed voices, the spotlight redirected to land squarely on Rory as she crossed the stage with her high heels clacking on the floor, her suit matching her businesslike demeanor. She reached the podium and stood on the top step so her short frame could see the crowd. And what a crowd it was. She smiled, drawing everyone's attention, if it wasn't already, directly to her face -- her head -- entirely devoid of hair.

"Is it frigid in here or is it just me?" Rory asked the crowd, rubbing her head. A few chuckles echoed back. It wasn't uncommon for Rory to use her ongoing bout with breast cancer, and resulting baldness, as an icebreaker.

"No, it must be absolutely -freezing- outside if those are, what, undergraduate students I see attending a lecture?"

Some more laughs this time, as shoulders slowly slacked and people exhaled. She'd managed to put most of them at ease, which was good. No doubt they wouldn't care to listen to any of her actual lecture. No, they weren't here for that. They were hear to see how a woman born and raised in Prairie View was holding up, only weeks after being accused of killing her husband.

"Now then," Rory continued, "Let's discuss the effects of genetically distinct cells within multi-celled organisms that originate from different zygotes involved in sexual reproduction."

---

ATGCTATAGCTC – Most of hair on forearms and legs. Difficult to discern from where a sample could be taken. Determination: Risky.

"Yep, reckon they're all down at the theater house, huh, Lynn?" Jessie, a young, simple-minded rookie, asked his superior. "Shame we can't go, you know, as part of the investigation.”

Jessie picked at his fingernails.

“We can't, can we? You know, go?” he asked, looking up.

"Already got some men down there, Jess, you know that," Lynn said, poring over his notes. “And they’re more protection detail than anything.” The 27-year veteran had been driving the same police cruiser around Prairie View's streets since before Jess was born. But he'd never had a case involving murder between two of the town's own. Lifting his cup to take a sip of coffee, he left a dark ring around a mugshot of Rory's face that was used in a story in the local paper. He continued to look for the one detail he missed.

"Doesn't make much sense, does it?" Jessie asked, walking up beside Lynn and looking at the case notes.

"What doesn't, that a husband would beat his wife who had breast cancer or she might actually be capable of killing him for it?"

"Well. Neither, I s'pose," Jessie said. "And wait, how d'you know she done it?"

Lynn pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed.

"God dammit, Jess, you've studied the same case I have for the past few weeks. What do you think?"

And so Jessie looked over Lynn's notes for what felt like the hundredth time, trying to refresh himself on the details and find the missing link.

---

ACGTGCTGACTG – Saliva, no variation. Safer bet, but act of application is not viable. Still, could be useful. Determination: TBD

"These are especially intriguing in that they are formed from four parent cells, or two fertilized eggs or fused embryos," Rory explained, illustrating the fertilization process on her presentation slides.

The research she was presenting tonight was the culmination of months and months worth of effort. Losing herself in her work was the only way she was able to cope with the troubles at home.

"In plants, for example, each cell population keeps its own characteristics, and the resulting plant organism is a mixture of various tissues."

Months spent in the lab doing countless experiments finally lead to tonight’s seminar. With any luck some top universities in the region would recognize her. However, the gossip and drama surrounding the recent death of her husband wasn’t exactly how she’d have liked to draw a crowd.

"By isolating various cell characteristics, leading embryologists have managed to create plants of a specific species but with different physical traits."

But one thing was for damn sure. She wasn't going to let his death ruin weeks of hard work. She would have given this lecture tonight even if she had to be escorted out in handcuffs.

---

ACGTGCTGACTG – Initial blood tests. More samples needed.

Jessie was looking over the case notes.

Just two Sundays ago, dispatch had gotten a call about yelling and fighting at Rory and Skylar’s place. Nothing new there. Even Jess, who's as green as they come, had been out there several times already. It wasn't a secret Skylar was a slave to the booze and Rory paid for it. Folks in small towns keep to their own, though, and there's a Prairie View saying: "Your problems are your problems".

Jordan, the neighbor, told officers he'd heard Rory pull in late like she always did after doctor's appointments or teaching a night class. Prairie View didn't have the medical facilities for chemo treatments, so Rory had to drive an hour or so into the city. Jordan mentioned that Skylar, of course, had never offered to take her. He said it was about 8:30 p.m. when he heard her kill the engine. After a few minutes came the yelling, which normally is not enough for him to call the cops. He said he heard Skylar yell, "You bitch!" Again, not a rare occurrence. It was the sound of shattering glass and frenzied screaming that alarmed him. That’s when Jordan called the cops.

Lynn arrived at the scene first, and it wasn't what he expected. The blood, sure. A crying Rory was likewise somewhat typical. Skylar on the ground, face-up, with a steak knife through his chest, was anything but. Seeing him on the ground would've been normal after a heavy night of drinking. This was different. An air lingered that seemed to weigh everything down with the scent of death. Before Lynn talked to Rory, he decided to examine the crime scene.

Skylar's cause of death was easy enough to discern. A seven-inch knife rammed down to the handle just beneath his sternum. In small-town fashion, Lynn decided he didn't need to call the coroner this time of night; he could do his work in the morning. Anyhow, it was clear the puncture of some vital organ or blood loss was the culprit. Other signs of some type of struggle littered the kitchen and den. Broken bottles and half-empty beer cans lined the counters and dirty clothes hung askew on upended furniture. But of course signs of struggle existed. The couple had fights every week.

"Now -that- is fucked up.”

Lynn jumped, his reverie interrupted.

"God dammit, Jess. Make a little more noise when you're behind people would you?" Lynn said.

"Sorry, boss," Jess said. "Bet Skylar wishes whoever did this to him had let him seen it coming, too, huh? You don't think, you know, Rory…?"

"What did you find upstairs?" Lynn asked, ignoring the question. "Anything in the bedroom? Unusual blood stains? Anything out of place?"

"Aw, not much," Jessie said. "Bedroom was a sty. Dunno how anyone could sleep on them sheets. Lots of winter clothes laid out, for Rory I’d guess. Y'know Skylar wears them same damn jeans and's got three shirts to his name he wears. Got some right fine framed photos in the master, though, one of that lighthouse you pass by going out toward the city, you know over on Crabapp-"

Lynn put his hand up to silence Jessie. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen Rory in a t-shirt or shorts. She'd recently taken to wearing long sleeves and pants, even on warmer days, to hide the bruises.

"Ok, so nothing in the bedroom. The bathroom? Guest room?"

"Bathroom had all kinds of feminine stuff I ain't be caught dead buying from a store," Jessie said. "All kinds of feminine pads, makeup. Rory always wears lots of makeup, now that I think on it. Tons of creams too, I couldn't believe it. Stuff for your face, your hands, even got lots of that stuff to keep your legs silky smooth."

Jessie grinned. "Hey Lynn," he said, pulling up his uniform pants as high as they would go, "who wears short shorts?"

"Oh, shut it, Jess," Lynn said. "Try to act professional, you’re at a goddamned murder scene. What else did you find?"

"Just some meds, part of her treatment I'd reckon. She just got a refill from the looks of it. Guest room had lots of papers and books," Jess said. "Go take a look at 'em for yourself, I sure's shit couldn't understand any of it."

Rory's research, Lynn thought. She always was a bright kid, and he still remembered the graduation speech she gave on behalf of her high school class -- all 23 of Prairie View's seniors that year. She was into science, if he recalled correctly. Lynn walked over and sat down next to Rory, whom he noted was holding a hot cup of tea, but not drinking a drop. She held it close to her face, as if gazing at her own reflection in the liquid’s surface.

"I'll take it from here, Jordan, thanks," Lynn said. Jordan patted Rory on the knee and headed home.

Rory fixated her eyes, red and tired from sobbing, directly into her mug.

"Rory?" Lynn prodded. "Do you think you've calmed down enough to tell me what happened here tonight?"

---

ATGCTATAGCTCG – Also blood. Results apparently random in nature, best option for placement. Determination: Optimal solution.

Halfway through her presentation, it was apparent that not a tenth of the audience was interested in Rory’s research. But she was more concerned with the visiting professors, who had arrived in town only hours ago to hear her present. She'd only hoped they hadn't bought a newspaper or overheard anything from one of Prairie View's gregarious citizens. A good showing here, and she was sure to be offered tenure at a large university, possibly even one in the city.

"Indeed, chimeras are not limited solely to plants. Much research has been conducted on early mouse development. Between the stages of fertilization of the egg and the implantation of a blastocyst into the uterus, different parts of the mouse embryo retain the ability to give rise to a variety of cell lineages."

She'd spent so many nights artificially inseminating mice and studying the various effects of her fertilizations. She took to creatures, so meek and fragile, suspect to the whims of much stronger, larger animals. Much like herself.

"Each of these parts of the blastocyst gives rise to different parts of the embryo; the inner cell mass gives rise to the embryo proper, while the trophectoderm and primitive endoderm give rise to extra embryonic structures that support growth of the embryo. Two- to eight-cell-stage embryos are competent for making chimeras, since at these stages of development, the cells in the embryos are not yet committed to give rise to any particular cell lineage, and could give rise to the inner cell mass or the trophectoderm."

She located the visiting professors in the crowd. Their eyebrows were raised, their interest piqued. She had them hooked. Now she only had to go in for the kill.

---

Conclusion: Blood is optimal agent. Its application should achieve desired results.

Jessie, growing bored of reading the same case notes over and over, threw them on the table.

"I mean, she said she came home and he was already dead, right?" Jessie asked.

"That's right," Lynn said.

"But that don't make much sense," Jessie said. "Jordan said he'd heard screaming. Yelling. Shit breaking."

"Still can't believe Skylar'd kill himself," Lynn said. "Just doesn't make sense."

"Maybe he felt guilty," Jessie offered. "Or just finally drank too much and did something too stupid, even for him."

"I just wish we had some damn -facts- we could use in this case," Lynn said.

"Truth, there, friend," Jessie said. "No fingerprints on the knife. Though she was wearing gloves, as usual. And no way to tell which bloodstains are from that night or one of the hundreds of nights before. Just the blood under his fingernails, which..."

"Is perhaps the damndest part of it all," Lynn finished for him.

"What do you mean?"

"Think about it. A right asshole like Skylar, he'd use his fists, or the back of his hand. Hell, I've seen him do it out in the yard a few times. But scratching? It all points to self defense, which..."

"Don't add up! I know!" Jessie said. "If Rory done stabbed him with that knife during a scuffle, it'd be her blood under his fingernails. But it ain't hers -- or his! You don't think..." Jessie stood and held up his hands, as if suddenly shocked by the revelation. "A secret lover. Probably one of them posh city boys who likes the smell of his own farts and has a fetish for chicks with no hair down there. A steamy, sexy..."

"God dammit, Jess," Lynn said, rolling his eyes. But he couldn't blame the kid. They'd scoured the house for clues. For evidence of an affair, of another involved party. The motive, the crime scene, the witness testimony, all of it pointed to Rory, and often Lynn found himself wondering if he could even blame her if she did do it.

"I dunno, and I'm starting not to care much," Jessie said. "I'll study tonight's game on TV instead. Let me know if you need any help deciphering that crap, chief."

Lynn looked down at the reams and reams of binders and research material. None of which he thought he'd ever understand. "There's gotta be an answer somewhere, kid," he said. And the question he'd start with was just who the hell else was in the house with Skylar that night?

---

The samples are prepared and ready at a moment’s notice.

Betraying the faintest of smiles, Rory glanced down at the professors, who were busily scratching notes, and clicked to the next slide.

"Tetragametic chimerism is one type of congenital chimerism," Rory explained while gesturing toward a slide of egg fertilization illustrations. "When two separate ova are fertilized by two sperm, the fusion of the two during the blastocyst or zygote stages can result in the development of an organism with intermingled cell lines."

She took a quick look over the crowd. Many of the townsfolk had left by now, but those remaining seemed just as dumbfounded as when she started. For a brief moment, their furrowed brows and perplexed looks gave her pleasure. The educated faculty, however, had stopped writing completely in light of being completely and utterly transfixed.

"In essence, what we end up with is a merging of two nonidentical organisms, not unlike that of identical twins, but with the distinction of having their own disparate DNA. Through my research, I have found that, while rare, human chimerism can occur in such a fashion, most commonly when associated with in-vitro fertilization. The resulting individual could live their entire life never knowing that a sibling exists inside of them as an inherent part of their genetic makeup.”

The lights came on abruptly. A mixture of fervent applause from a very small group of professors and graduate students juxtaposed the yawns and stretches from what remained of the normal crowd, many of who were looking around as if asking the question, "Is it over?" Rory quickly thanked the crowd and walked off, her heels clacking on the stage floor.

---

Once this is over, everything will change. We can finally live in peace.

Lynn wasn't getting anywhere. He'd tried reading Rory's research, looking for any clues at all, but the entire ordeal seemed beyond futile. All of the biology talk about embryos and blasto-whatever. He dropped the paper he was reading in despair and rubbed his eyes. Staring blankly at the stack of papers, his vision out of focus, he contemplated just dropping the case.

What harm could really come of it, he thought to himself. The world is rid of one less abuser and a sick woman is finally free to pursue some measure of happiness in her life. He was set to retire anyhow in a few years, and one murder case in Prairie View wouldn't draw national attention. Best if everyone just got back to a peaceful way of life.

"Boss!" Jessie yelled from the break room. "Home fucking run in the bottom of the ninth! Whooooooo!"

“God dammit, Jess!” Lynn snapped back to reality, eyes focusing right back where he'd let them drift, when something caught his eye on the page. Hand-scribbled notes in the margin of a textbook on genetics. Something about DNA.

---

It’s foolproof.

Rory sat in a waiting room backstage, nerves causing her to slightly shake as she waited to meet the visiting professors. She'd always dreamed of teaching at a major university, somewhere in a big city, with a huge library and coworkers who matched her intellectually. This could be her big break. Finally, now that Skylar wasn't holding her here, she would be able to pack up and simply leave, with none of the gossip or drama that comes with a divorce. He was dead. So people would –have- to understand.

Alone with her thoughts, she reflected on the last several months. Remembered when she'd cut herself during a class lab and, not wanting to miss a teaching opportunity, had the students analyze the makeup of some droplets of her blood. She recalled how the students then turned in their findings, which showed something most peculiar – she was, undoubtedly, a human chimera. Simply put, the DNA in the blood – her blood that she’d given to each group of students – didn’t always match.

Rory ruminated on how that was the night she hatched the plan that would lead her to this very point in time. For weeks she spent her nights in the local university's lab, testing different hair follicles, blood, saliva. The hair on her head? That was hers. Most of the hair on her left arm and some patches on her legs came up completely different. Hair as evidence at a crime scene was too hard to manage, and there’s no telling from where they’d take a sample. She'd decided it would have to go. Breast cancer seemed as good an excuse as any other. It was definitely something she could use to her advantage, at any rate. Her saliva always contained only her DNA. She wasn’t about to kiss or apply her mouth to any part of Skylar for that, though. Still, its consistency offered the least risk. Her blood was random, as evidenced by the class experiment. No telling if it would turn up as hers or not in a test. But if she could only get some beforehand…

She relived her drives to the city every other day for her fake chemo treatments. What a joke. More often than not she'd stop at some restaurant just far enough out of town or some nearby landmark to clear her head and think. She'd spent many nights watching the waves come in, the light spinning in a circle, wondering what it would be like, wondering if she'd be caught.

She thought about her hair. Her beautiful auburn curls she was forced to sacrifice using bottle upon bottle of Nair and Veet every other day, else the stubble would start to show and betray her charade. Her mind wandered until it, finally, rested on Skylar. The bastard. She'd been a fool to marry him so young, knowing how flawed and volatile a person he was. It wasn't so bad at first. He might've gripped her wrist too hard or been a bit too rough during sex. However, the first time he slapped her, she was too stunned to cry or yell at him. The next thousand or so times turned out not to be any different.

So when, several months ago, her students uncovered a genetic rarity that was in every way a miracle, she went with it. It was odd at first, acknowledging the fact that she had a sibling inside of her, somewhere, intertwining its genetic code with her own to form -- what exactly? A freak? A genetic aberration? No, she was a new person completely. And she wasn't alone anymore. She'd show her husband she wouldn't take it, and then she'd move on with her life.

Not everything had gone according to plan. For one, she actually hadn't planned on killing Skylar that night. Something inside her, though, incensed at seeing his useless, drunk, worthless self come at her with that certain look in his eye, triggered a response. She grabbed the nearest object, a steak knife belonging to a set given to her at her wedding shower, and rammed it square in his chest, knocking him back into the counter and shattering empty beer bottles. Her long sleeves ensured he couldn’t dig into her skin as he fought back, just before he convulsed and lay still. At last.

That night she was glad she always carried around a vial of her sibling’s blood. In this way and others she was always ready for this moment. It was as easy as carefully applying the blood under his fingers. Her only real concern was that someone would link her research to the murder. And of course that her case was not airtight; she'd said she'd come home and Skylar was already dead. Yet Jordan told the cops he'd heard yelling. Discrepancies aside, she knew the DNA would be enough. When questioned, she found the lying part simple enough. Simply deny, deny, deny. Just like she’d been denying that her life was going to ruin for so many years. Forcing herself to cry was the hard part; though leaning in close and letting the steam off her tea cause her eyes to water did the trick.

She recalled how she endured countless interrogations, but always stuck to her story. Skylar was dead when she got home. After all, DNA can’t lie, and the fresh blood under his fingernails was certainly from defending himself that night. When they got the results back and said the DNA didn’t match her own, it took all the restraint she could muster not to jump up, dance, or even crack the tiniest smile right on the spot. She instead took a deep breath and merely said, “Am I free to go?”

---

It was almost too easy. A poor, beaten woman with breast cancer, complaining about having to take too many shots at the hospital. Couldn’t I have a cheek swab instead, please? Then open wide and say ahhh.

After a few hours of poring over Rory's notes, Lynn thought he finally understood. Somehow. He didn't really understand the specifics, save for that a person's DNA could vary in special circumstances. According to her notes, even in humans the hair could be different from the blood or saliva. They'd only ever taken Rory's saliva, mainly for the fact that the breast cancer claimed her hair and the poor thing had already endured hundreds of shots. They never did take a blood sample, because, well, what’s the difference between that and saliva when it comes to the DNA of a single person? A large one in some people, apparently. A long shot, but a shot nonetheless.

It was the missing piece. If Lynn could get Rory to take a blood sample and, eventually, possibly a few hair samples, he just might link her to the blood found on Skylar. Lynn was about to yell for Jessie, to have him go pick up Rory and call the papers and let the entire town know. He imagined the headlines: Professor Subject of Own Research, Rare Disease Nearly Saves Murderer.

That’s when he thought about what Jessie had said. Something about the asshole deserving it, about Rory being free. He stopped his mind from racing for just a minute or so. He was so close to retirement; did he really want to have his career highlight be locking away some poor woman who was only defending herself? It wasn’t like she planned on killing him, and better Skylar than her. She probably would’ve been hit too hard in the head one day down the road and that would’ve be that.

Then the implications of Lynn’s discovery hit him. Is that what Rory was? A “her”? Was there really another presence inside of her? A sibling, as she says?

“I guess they’ll have to figure that one out together,” Lynn said out loud to himself, closing the large binder of research notes with a satisfying thump.

“Who’s they?” Jessie asked, startling Lynn once again with his presence.

“God dammit, Jess,” Lynn said. “Don’t worry about it. Y’know, I think you were right. This case is deader than my daughter’s last eight goldfish. Let’s go to the bar; the lecture should be over by now, and people are probably yappin’ their heads off about what happened.”

“Right on, boss!” Jessie exclaimed. “Yea, you’re totally right. Little thing like that, there’s no way she had it in her.”

Lynn smiled.

But of course she did.

how to cope

to call it a bombshell,
would be a misnomer.
for it causes prolonged anguish,
and not merciful obliteration.

indeed, i would much rather,
be blown to tiny bits
than suffer from within,
slow, and agonizing.

my head keeps spinning
as an imaginary vise
presses on my heart,
getting tighter with no reprieve.

it plays over and over in my head
like a song you can't stop singing,
a habit you can't seem to break,
a past you are helpless to change.

while i am a thinking man,
there is no logic here,
no hope of understanding,
just simple, real, hurt.

curse

forgiveness can be so hard
with such a heavy price,
so i turn the other way
and bid another future adieu.

i've lost count how many times
this sinking feeling has emerged,
slowly unraveling the threads
holding my patchwork heart together.

i wonder if i'm the cause
since after all this time,
the common denominators
are my bad decisions - repeated.

to refuse what is good for me
time and time again,
in favor of something familiar
like pain and sorrow and despair.

to catch a butterfly

to catch a butterfly,
can be a challenging task.
for, oh, how they flutter,
swiftly, to and fro.

chasing one is futile,
always out of reach.
wild, desperate grabs
yield nothing but air.

yet one can extend a hand,
motionless, like stone,
and, through patience,
attract the creature.

for that which is sought,
does not wish to be captured,
but to choose of its own accord,
the heart on which to alight.

you've been fluttering like a fairy,
around and around my heart.
wondering if it might be worth it,
to have yet another fresh start.

to try again once more,
and play this dangerous game.
which has the power to heal,
and also the power to maim.

sensing this i proceeded,
in a slow, methodical advance.
for i was also a bit unsure,
if i should take the chance.

yet i am so very glad i did,
for it's been entirely worthwhile,
every time i hear your laugh,
and every time i see you smile.

the future can be a scary beast,
full of unknowns, it's true...
which is why i am so grateful,
i'll be taking it on with you.

i'd like to file a complaint

by toy factory standards,
humans simply wouldn't do.
much too many imperfections,
with a large percentage of defects.

entire lines of humans
are oblivious to worldly issues,
stuck in their individually
wrapped, plastic boxes.

they turn a blind eye to
the baby doll models
that come into the world
skinny and malnourished.

meanwhile, others are created
with a sense of entitlement,
and will whine -- and whine --
long after their string has been pulled.

sparkling wine chilled in the fridge
next to three filet mignons that
i bought earlier that morning
in anticipation of a celebration.

two new thermoses were for
the morning after, washed,
rinsed, and set to dry, for the
coffee for our early morning trip.

an hour or so spent cleaning my place,
placing candles in the bedroom,
setting two plates, two wine glasses,
and preparing the food we'd cook.

my unbridled eagerness,
a harbinger of disappointment,
when my perfect world,
finally met reality.