Monday, August 19, 2013

Casey Zella Moir


It was the way things were
to have Sean come running
up the hill trying to
light a cigarette while

choking out the words
I stabbed him I

stabbed him. Too young to be
a mother, I took Sean's hand

and we ran past college
students out for a big
city party. Sean cried
on the subway for two
whole minutes, then slowed to

breathe. Some dude, he said, tried
to bite my dick off.

I had never heard of such a thing. To dissect
via teeth. To make a eunuch of a pretty
young boy who you'd've dropped 200 on, easy.
I pictured Sean's hand like the wrath of God, smiting.
The knife splitting through expensive silken fabric
to meet skin, then muscle, then collarbone. To leave
it sticking, a lighting bolt, out of the shoulder.

I was a skinny white girl getting real twisted
up wondering: Does it shake your hand to hit

a body's framework? Do your muscles record the
motion for later? Next time my pants are around
my ankles, will I have a knife in hand?

Casey reads "High School Memory":

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Casey confesses: "There has always been a duality, to me, in criminal acts. To break the law gives one power, but takes one's safety away. Balancing between the two is unsettling, terrifying, and exhilarating. Based on true events, this poem took me six years to write."

CASEY ZELLA MOIR is a teacher at an elementary school in Santa Fe, New Mexico. She grew up by the ocean, but loves the desert almost equally. She is passionate about working with young people to blend words, growth, and agriculture. She is a graduate of Hampshire College.

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