Buffalo Alice stuck her pig husband
in the throat with a carpet knife.
Made the evening news. Hell
of a lady if you ask me,
but I don’t get jury summons.
It’s break-neck around here. Not enough
hours in the day to earn. People pinched
by landlords, business pricks, government mules.
When nothing’s left to say, there’s violence–
blood stains, lead paint chips, hepatitis.

My last tetanus shot was fifteen years ago.
It was white tail season, farmer
Fred caught me lying
prone in one of his hedgerows.
Had my old man’s 12 gauge
slug gun full of five shells.
I came up short clearing
a barbed-wire fence. Strangled
my left ankle with a crown
of rust thorns. Gash healed
up alright, I’ve seen worse

on tin-canned knee caps. Redheaded
nurse fixed me up at the clinic.
Could’ve spent my life counting
freckles on her face. Her eyes
were half moons shining
on my water. I had a dream
not too long ago, the good kind
where women stand naked
in the high grass singing
songs along a river flowing
toward the sunset. I’m more
than just rust. My blood
goes hot and cold, I dance
then shiver. Late at night

when I’m too tired to sleep
and there’s only an hour left
before my alarm clock
beats my ear drum, I wonder
what death will be like. Could all go
dark just as quick as flicking off
a light switch. Not like I’d complain.
But I hope there’s something, even just
a washed out concrete staircase,
for a guy like me to climb
his way toward grace.

Jeff Thomas is a poet from The Thumb. His poems center his experiences working blue collar jobs and growing up in rural southeast Michigan. Thomas is an instructor of creative writing and college composition at Eastern Washington University, as well as the poetry editor for Willow Springs Magazine. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in The Glacier, Blue Collar Review, Paterson Literary Review, and Gargoyle.