by Drew Knapp

A warning–Fights will dent like wick exposed to wax. Slight hollows will form in the hard, even surface of fresh hands then bubble and congeal into scars stuck like chewed bubblegum to your skin. As these layers of wounds and given-wounds accumulate your hands will grow great and heavy enough to drag rake-line ruts in the dirt and finally anchor you to a place. A river runs through Small Town like an oily ribbon, murk-edged and merciless. Down the slight, shy angle of the gravel road, signs light up for bingo. A shattered NO VACANCY flares in neon. Here is the careworn Romeo, unable to lift his arms, his fists full to the brim with fights, wondering what little inflection of sadism has brought him again to the bar, to the pulpy center of the drab ordinariness of chaos, still stupid enough to pray to the obvious gods for help with a life-fire raging like some winged enormity beyond a hillocky drive-through. Strive to be a winner of necessary fistfights, he says. Not a fighter. Save your dexterity for holding and mending.

Drew Knapp is pursuing a master’s degree in Washington D.C. He lives with his dog, Val Kilmer, in an apartment with no doors.