The officer stood next to the device, his task that day to tip the headless body into the pine box. His superiors thought he was ready for this responsibility: he’d done well during previous executions, helping serenely to carry the closed box to the unmarked grave. But when the blade hit and the body of the condemned man jerked like a startled child, the officer staggered back and gagged into his hand. He was young and came to work in shoes he kept buffed to a high gloss. A week before, or two, he would have been forgiven.
Mark Seidl lives in New York’s Hudson Valley, where he works as a rare books librarian–the best job in the world! Poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Hotel Amerika, New Delta Review, Right Hand Pointing, and elsewhere