AFTER LUNCH

After lunch a disk flies from Jack's hand
over the lotion and cologne table,
by the leather jackets, and through Evan's neck.

Picking up his head, Evan asks Jack
to rinse the silver disk of his blood and wet flesh.
Jack says he's too busy folding silk sweaters,

but pauses to pump two gobs of lotion
into his palm.  As he works this into his hands,
he eyes a lady looking at herself in the mirror.

The disk whizzes by his ear and takes off
her right arm.  Still looking over her left shoulder,
she just asks Jack if her crepe pants are too tight.


Daniel Saalfeld
TAR
DANIEL SAALFELD teaches at both The Catholic University of America and American University, where he received his MFA. His poetry has recently appeared in Antietam Review, Confluence, Hawai'i Review, New Zoo Poetry Review, Portland Review, and The Southeast Review.