The hairs on the back of your neck stand at attention—soldiers ready to march into shock. It’ll burn, not like a lightning bolt that cracks white hot and then disappears leaving you to smolder, no, more like a shock administered as you’re strapped down for your therapy. The jolts send you into spasms and all you held dear falls from your hands—a slippery fish that you detached from the hook and he wiggled; the gills sliced your fingers, and you let go. His body slapped the wooden dock, then flipped over and over until he plunged back into the water. Just let that one go. But this doctor who has you pinned, who pulsates electricity through your body, refuses to let you leave. You’re fried. A flame tunnels down your body desperately seeking the earth and like a charred tree, all that remains is bark covering the ground. Reprinted with permission Copyright © 2012 by Cat Dixon

TABULA RASA by Cat Dixon

From behind one-way glass, I stare. The line-up is comprised of him and him and several more. I point to each and each is called forth— come straight, turn to the side, move to the back wall. When asked who did it, I say everyone in the room. The men sent to cells, the officers go home; a janitor sweeps by with a broom, so I tap the glass, call over the mike to the narrow, empty tomb. Reprinted with permission Copyright © 2012 by Cat Dixon

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