Steve Sibra grew up in a flurry of fresh cowpies and galloping headless chickens on a small farm near Big Sandy, Montana. He spent many years in Montana, involved in higher education and more complex partying, until finally moving to Seattle. Steve's work has appeared in many journals, most recently Flint Hills Review, Dead Fern Press and Chiron Review to name a few, and a book of poetry entitled "Shoes For Baby" is forthcoming from Swallow Publishing.
DEAD MAN'S SHIRT
My arm dangled in the sleeve,
looking lifeless as the namesake
of the garment. “I’ll take it,”
I said, but of course it took me.
At the grocery some guy
I did not know called me
by a stranger’s name, slapped
my back, too hard to be
a friend. He looked long
into my face, studied features,
said “I heard you had passed”
then mentioned a wife left behind.
I punched him then, showed him
fists dead to the notion of mercy,
pummeled him among cumquats,
beat him senseless with radishes.
When they pulled me from the body,
I caught a glimpse in the vegetable
mirror. The shirt was familiar,
but the face like an alien, reversed --
the rage, anger hanging
from my skull like a smile.