Transparency . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Anthony Nannetti

minefield of ever-shifting odds.

But then, out of nowhere, peacefulness descends. Or maybe it’ s passiveness. You let go, as if on a hilltop, allowing the sky to unfurl you into a mound of autumn leaves. They just want your money. This isn ’t it. You ’ll see your family again. Breathe in real pine trees again. You ’ll get sober, dump Davy, study for the LSAT...

The gun-holder gently orders, close your eyes, like a parent putting you to sleep. Later he ’ s dropped off to procure cash from your accounts, earning two month’ s wages in an hour. You can almost hear the purr of the machine.

The other two ask what you do, if your boyfriend speaks Spanish. You ’ re a receptionist at a law firm and no, he doesn ’t.

The taxi driver just coasts along and you wonder what his cut is. Before the trio had emerged from peripheries, you ’d sensed you were headed the wrong way, but couldn ’t summon the boldness to order, “Stop. This isn ’t it. ”

But now words are tumbling, from nowhere again. You know the deal, you fib, because this has happened before. This is your second “ paseo milionario, ” as they ’ ve dubbed this hold-up. This is old hat, your calm voice suggests. No, this made-up gang hadn ’t hurt you because you had cooperated. Just like you and Davy were doing now. Neither of you were going to trade your lives for money.

“Good girl, ” the stroker says in his husky, friend-like Spanish. “That’ s the way. ”

You have the temerity to ask for enough cash to escape the shanty town you ’ re about to be dropped off in. The stroker says, “But of course, ” though naturally he leaves you and your mute boyfriend peso-less, surrounded by houses that look like fangs in the dark. Finally, another cab catches your semaphore code for help and takes you to a friend who pays the driver and pours two glasses of scotch. You don ’t touch yours.

At some point Davy gets up for more ice, and your friend leans in and calls you brave. Numbed by everything, you shrug. Brave? You turn the word over like a shirt you ’ re not sure will fit. What had you been more afraid of, really, death? Or feeling forever hijacked, speeding in the wrong direction, unable to say, thisisn ’ tit?

Transparency

By Anthony Nannetti

In a better world Bukowski gets a postage stamp, poetry workshops include vocational training, and mega hardware stores hang signs all around saying Put that shit backbefore you hurtyourself --while you, Inamorata, draped only in barrier tape, read me my Miranda rights.

Anthony Nannetti’ s poems have appeared in UK Guardian Unlimited and online in Ygdrasil. He lives in the Bella Vista area of Philadelphia with his wife and two daughters.

Gwen Florio first worked in the West during the 1990s as a Denver-based national correspondent for The Philadelphia Inquirer. During her time at the Inquirer, she was also a member of Philadelphia ’ s Rittenhouse Writers Group. She has received two prose grants from the New Jersey State Council on the Arts, and a residency from the Ucross Foundation in Wyoming. Florio now lives in Missoula, MO, where she is city editor for the Missoulian newspaper. She is afraid of bears.