When the Doberman tackled me, and
tore my scalp in two, my mother says
my forehead fell over my eyes.
There is innocence in every emergency.
They strapped my small body to a board,
shaved my head, gave me 33 stitches.
Sirens always say the same thing.
So do ringing phones.
I am tired of explaining myself.
The edge of dice are supple, roll
over green felt. I want to be somebody’s
lucky charm. I will never say this out loud.
Each time the city holds an election,
I wonder if some citizen will write my name
on the blank line of the ballot.
You can see the scar under my right eye,
where a tooth grazed and missed.
About the author:
Becky Fink is a writer living in Los Angeles. She’s originally from Chicago, which she will always consider home. When she’s not lusting after and fumbling with words, she’s either reading or starring in her own make-believe cooking show. You can find her work in PANK Magazine (Fall ’14) and follow her on twitter at @Becky_Fink