THE PERFECT HAND
by Ellie Parker
baby roaches
writhe
at the bottom of my purse
they welcome me
to part
their hair
they say it feels so good
to be touched
it would be so wrong to slit
the perfect yellow
consider
them not fodder
for ego splits
bits for slot machines
just enough space
beneath the floorboards
for a free ride
two cards
to win & i’m the ace
aren’t you tired of
loose change
to adore
or be adored
is the only choice you get
crawl behind the sky
to undress
without having to be bare
rip apart
their hardshell wings
for something softer than
the under breast
antennas stroking
you to hush
generating numbers
for a lucky hit
lambent in the slip of
consciousness
afraid to lose what swiftly fades
as you wake
nibbling
the crease around your eye
too hot to hate too ripe to eat
lights off little legs
scurry across the pillowy edge
to rot in the fate
of a sore cha-ching
the probability of a five heart
flush
the odds
of love’s resolution
luminous you
in fortune’s periphery
they cry will you tuck us in tonight
little spoons
grazing the concave
of your belly
careful not to squash
the promise of infestation
sensing the approach
of a shadow
they rush between your legs
fleeing the dawn
where rolled over guts
shimmer in
light leak
ellie parker is a filmmaker and writer living in brooklyn by way of los angeles.
