After Lunch

After lunch a disk flies from my hand
over the lotion and cologne table,
by the leather jackets, and through Evan’s neck.
Picking up his head, Evan asks me to rinse
the silver disk of his blood and wet flesh.
I say I’m too busy folding silk sweaters,
but pause to pump two gobs of lotion
into my palm. As I work this into my hands,

I eye a woman looking at her ass
in the mirror. The disk whizzes by my ear
and lops off her right arm.
She just looks over her left shoulder
and asks me if her crepe pants are too tight.

DANIEL SAALFELD’s poems have appeared in many journals, including The Hopkins Review, The Seattle Review, Southeast Review, Cimarron Review, Chicago Quarterly Review, The South Carolina Review, South Dakota Review, Tar River Poetry, Valparaiso Poetry Review, and The Pinch. A Fulbright Scholar recipient, he lectured on modern and contemporary poetry in Russia. He lives in Washington, D.C. and teaches at the University of Maryland.