- 48 -

Gabrielle Hoyt

In my line of duty
I have seen the final resting place
of mistaken steps and faltered grips.
They manifest in the shapes
of treaded dirt
and the deep sticky red 
of spilt cabernet.
I mourn for the knuckles,
knotted white,
that scrub
the stubborn stains.

Today I ripped the outline
of a father off the floorboards
of his bedroom.
I learned that humans too,
can stain.

His family had only been gone a week.
The lack of cellular service
kept any alarms from going off
when seven days passed without a call.
“Dad is working hard on his sales report,
Dad is working hard pedicuring the lawn.”

After the police,
then coroner,
then yellow hazmat suits,
the last eulogy is left for me.

Prayer of a Sears Carpet Technician



- 49 -

As I worked
his wife chewed on
Xanax in the kitchen,
while his children placed
plastic stethoscopes
against their hearts,
listening for any lapse in beat.

I stared hard at the silhouette
stamped into the carpet,
the ink of decomposed flesh.
Six foot something,
but when arteries collapsed
foundations crumbled onto the floor.

I whistled three Hail Marys
while I packed up the fabric.
My rosary did not sway
the entire drive to the landfill.