Apr/May 2002 Poetry Special Feature


by Michelle Cameron



In the room
where they fold
the girls have
to cut their nails

the non-coms
inspect them
once daily

it's humiliating
when they
bring out
the clippers

the sharp click
as the jagged pieces
fly through the room

the corporal tired
of explaining how
deadly the thinnest
scratch in the
waxy white surface

how a single fingertip
of light could shred
the white air
the bubbling
cone of safety.


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