Lighter

by Dorianne Laux

Steal something worthless, something small,

every once in a while. A lighter from the counter

at the 7-Eleven. Hold that darkness in your hand.

Look straight into the eyes of the clerk

as you slip it in your pocket, her blue

bruised eyes. Don't justify it. Just take

your change, your cigarettes, and walk

out the door into the snow or hard rain,

sunlight bearing down, like a truck, on your back.

Call it luck when you don't get caught.

Breathe easy as you stand on the corner,

waiting, like everyone else, for the light to change,

following the cop car with your eyes

as it slowly rolls by, ignoring the babies

in their shaded strollers. Don't you want

something for nothing? Haven't you suffered?

Haven't you bean beaten down, condemned

like a tenement, gone to bed hungry, along?

Sit on a stone bend and dig deep for it,

touch your thumb to the greased metal wheel.

Call it a gift from the gods of fire.

Call it your due.

Russian Roulette

by Rachel Epstein

We do this not because we wish to die,

that our body be buried beneath the earth,

for sunlight to never touch our skin.

We do this for the feeling,

the flow of intoxicating energy,

through our blood soaked veins.

To circumvent death,

that would truly be something.

As we turn the barrel over in our hands,

contemplating who will go next.

There is only a small chance that a life will be,

swept away tonight.

Pull the trigger, and pray

that it’s not you.