KIRK WESTPHAL

HOW I WILL ESCAPE

All the day’s unspoken thoughts
mill and fester about
until they notice me,
slinking toward a door
I suppose might be there.
They press in,
eager for an audience,
crooked and agape.

I hear the woman who tried to seduce me
selling herself to all my friends.

I see a thousand dollars in an open box
but a painter hands it to a priest.

Beside me is the woman I imagined kissing
but she is snake-eyed, covered in chain mail.

I murmur I’ll try again tomorrow.

In the corner I see Jesus Christ
spitting back my name.