Philip Newton is a writer and musician living in Oregon. His novel, Terrane, was published in September by Unsolicited Press, and his poetry has appeared in magazines from Portland, Oregon to Bangalore, India.

Visage

It was well past daylight
When Mary went under the knife
They warned her but she wouldn’t listen
And now look
She’ll never lose that sour disposition
She’ll get tired of that
Badger nose, those
Matchstick lips that
Crummy outlook

But she wanted to make a deal
That’s the way she was about such things
She stayed up all night, rubbing her hands
Hands which are now lobsters
She counted scales
She could never get enough
Ostrich feathers
She’d sell her babies
For one perfect incisor

Now her breath is full of needles
There are trotters down there inside those pumps
Those pores there, they ooze cash

It’s in such small ways that we die
And of such minor infractions
That serious crimes are composed