By: Matthew Navey
Dear, ____cide
My hands are getting smaller as I fatter.
My body eats itself, swallowing and growing
outward like the bark of a fig tree melting
over top a statue of a man. The man is smiling with
a picnic cloth tied to a stick, slung over his shoulder.
He is Saint Ignatius, patron to vagrants, vagabonds, vermin.
Can I spare him my change? He’ll spend it on drugs.
Love, ____cide