Apr/May 2002 • Poetry • Special Feature |
Holes
In the room
where they fold
parachutes,
the girls have
to cut their nailsthe non-coms
inspect them
once dailyit's humiliating
when they
bring out
the clippersthe sharp click
as the jagged pieces
fly through the roomthe corporal tired
of explaining how
deadly the thinnest
scratch in the
waxy white surfacehow a single fingertip
of light could shred
the white air
the bubbling
cone of safety.