Sex and Murder Magazine

By Deborah Walker

Sal is pleading with the doctor,
touching him expertly,
offering him everything with
the unsubtle touch of her hands.
I feel nothing.

I watch the other men in the clinic
and wonder why the clients only accept male tissue.
I think about my flesh grown to
some marvelous, ever-expanding alien body.
The merging of human and inhuman.
I feel nothing.

"Come on. We'll get nothing from him."
She appears to include me in her anger.
I don't know why. I have sold everything
I could: an eye, my fingers, my spleen.
Everything Sal asked me to sell.
I have given her everything.

I feel nothing.
They sort you out in the clinic.
They slice up your head on your first visit.