shot glass
"... brevity is the soul of wit ..."
- William Shakespeare

Krista Genevieve Farris

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No Detectable Cancer

How many strokes does it take for the Dyson to choke-down
a mountain feist hair embedded in the low pile wool rug?

Electricity rushes the whirring brush- I lurch. I pull back.
I see your lips move. Is this drowning my reverie?

I'm in a cornfield behind my childhood home–
months after the Hoosier harvest.

How many times did the combine pass
to break the stalks, snatch the seed?

Red lightning strikes where the sun should have set–
shocks my wintering body. I seize.

The feist barks at the snarling vacuum–
the sucking breath, prehensile cord.