Samuel Minier:

Writing in the Dark

We got tiny little fingers, perfect for the work,

and eyes just as small, pebble-pointed from His

grand dark factory – creeping beltways

of flesh flats waiting for our touch

to tell their tales.

Pinch a lip into a pucker or pull

apart a grimace. Tweezer-less pluck

errant hairs or tangle into a strangled

mass. Smooth smash, preen rip, until

the visage is fully birthed in a final

caress-break. Carefully stowed away

until that time comes for the Boss

to swoop in, slip-swapping in the

insta-second when He brushes their cheek,

switches their face with our handiwork,

our trademark – ephemeral pallor,

unmistakable even through denial, tears,

soft funeral lighting.