Poetry by Justin Karcher

And When the War Is Done, Our Nails Will Look So Pretty

Saturday morning
And Carly’s getting her nails done
And I’m plunked on a chair
And everything feels so unreal

In a dream, I’m getting a pedicure somewhere
Dangling my feet off the edge
But they’re not my feet
They’re bigger than that
As big as skyscrapers heavy with heredity
They’ve been weighing me down for years
They’re the feet of my father
My grandfather
All those callouses from centuries of running away
Blue-collar toenails as sharp as swords still stuck in stones
The only thing our feet have been good for
Is kicking up the dust and trying to move on

In this dream, the sun is shining on an army of faceless pedicurists
And I know they’re making fun of me in a language I don’t quite understand
A language that my forefathers tried to stomp into submission
I plead with them to just cut off my thousands of feet
“Be done with them,” I scream
But the pedicurists just shake their heads and make my feets better

In this dream, I’m sitting atop a mountain of work boots and birth control bayonets
And thinking that I should roll off the edge like a flame-less cannonball
That maybe I’ll find my fuse again if I just give in to change
But my feet
They’ve always been holding me back
My father’s feet
My grandfather’s feet

I dream a lot
But I never dream about water
And that has always made me sad
Because water means life and freedom
And it also seems beautiful to dream of floating in a body of water
Because the important word there is ‘body’
Because it means you can open yourself up to any body
It means you have no problem swimming toward unfamiliar arms

In this dream, there are fungus vultures circling around my feet
And waiting for me to cut them off with a rusty buzz saw
Waiting for me to run footless toward a sun that’s in love with our shadows
Shadows of our fathers
Shadows of our grandfathers

In this dream, I hold hands with a faceless pedicurist
And she teaches me how to walk again

When Carly texts me that she’s done
I’m having a cigarette outside in the parking lot
It’s time to get a move on, because there are still many things left to do

As we drive away in our Chevy Cruze
I hear screams coming from inside the nail salon
Manicurists and pedicurists are stabbing suburban imperialists to death
Nail files are weapons of mass destruction
Manicurists and pedicurists are laughing and painting their nails
With the blood of housewives
It’s a massacre

As we drive down Sheridan Drive
I tell Carly we’re going to Starbucks
Because I’m really in the mood for a Grande Mocha Frappuccino
That I used to drink them all the time back in college
Carly smiles and nods her head
I miss those days and I don’t know why

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Bio: Justin Karcher is the author of Tailgating at the Gates of Hell from Ghost City Press, http://ghostcitypress.tumblr.com/gcp003, the chapbook When Severed Ears Sing You Songs from CWP Collective Press, https://www.cwp-press.com/#/when-severed-ears-sing-you-songs/ and the micro-chapbook Just Because You've Been Hospitalized for Depression Doesn't Mean You're Kanye West from Ghost City Press, https://gumroad.com/l/karcher2017, as part of their 2017 summer micro-chapbook series. His recent work has appeared in Foundlings, Cease,Cows, Thought Catalog, varsity goth, Occulum and more. He is the Editor-in-Chief of Ghost City Review. His one act play When Blizzard Babies Turn to Stone premiered in February at Alleyway Theatre in Buffalo, NY. He tweets @Justin_Karcher.

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