Christina Fulton











                                                                        I would like my husband’s

                                                                        autopsy report.



is a non-fat spread

of indigenous lies.


You can jiggle

but you can bend?


                                                                        The line went dead—

                                                                        star dust quiet.


Paperwork has a tendency

to beat off good faith.


Bad faith lives in an ice cube tray.


Foot her the bill


and tag

the littlest piggy it.


                                                                        Home address please…”


My left ventricle

behind egg shell nipples.


He lived there,


but went ostrich hunting.


It was over easy

and well done.


                                                                        Thank you for your kindness,


 but I need his cerebral




Everything is on tea cup time.


It’s spinning

into her sunnyside up

Prada personality.


She bet big.


                                                                        Goodbye, Missus G—”


But I kept my name

piled under tissues.


She kept everything

in Cadbury foil.


No Easter droppings!


No resurrection


of  ou-er




                                                                        Dial tone…

























To My Father’s Best Friend

And His Charming Wife




But first,

a public service announcement…




When Pilate saw that he was accomplishing nothing,

but rather that a riot was starting,

he took water, and washed his hands

before the multitude, saying,

I am innocent of the blood of this just person:

see you to it.[1]

























To My Father’s Best Friend

And His Charming Wife (continued)


Soapy apologies

stitched up my ears.


You asked me

in the blood forum.


“What is the Truth?”


It’s a dollar death

in the arms of false sheep!


You can’t lie

to the crossroad spooks

with leather smiles.


You can’t lie

to your tombstone

leopard hooker.


You can’t lie

to my Holy Mother

of open wounds.


Wash your hands

in the urinal

of unbabtized




In his madness

you found goose eggs.


A golden cut

above the rest


and his wrist.







Quit Digging up

the King of Spades


Crack the bone

and call, raise,

or bet


where your souls

will settle

in the muck.


You run

into his stone garden


ace high and nuts.


Quit licking the pot

with blind bets.


Jokers wild

with no hearts


let go

of his river card!


I’m sitting this out

and praying


that the table stakes

are not too high


to fall

or flop from.


Let him rest

in his hole


cards and all.

[1] An excerpt from “The Book of Matthew”

concerning Jesus’s trial that was

horribly misquoted on March 11, 2011.



















She graduated from Florida Atlantic University with her MFA in fiction. She is currently teaching at Miami Dade College North. Two of her poems have appeared in a recent edition of Open Minds Quarterly. Three of her poems are now on The Outsider website. Her creative nonfiction pieces “Spiderman and The Old Man,” “Manahawkin Vice,” and “Do You Remember?” have been in The Scarlet Leaf Review, The Foliate Oak Literary Magazine, and The Route Seven Review.


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