The sight of a woman undressing no longer interests Jim. After eight years of watching the security monitors at a certain Midtown women’s clothing store, Jim has seen every state of undress, every awkward position: crouching, leaning, squeezing, sliding in and out of skirts, pants, shirts, dresses, bras. Everything, except what he expected when he took the job. Never has a leggy blonde, or exotic, swollen-lipped brunette, slipped off her shirt to reveal a transparent camisole, cupped her breasts one in each hand and felt their full weight without a bra to collect them in a proper place. Not once has a woman looked up to the camera, noticed the security eye gazing down at her, opened her eyes wide in shock then contracted them in a dirty stare, smiled a wicked proposition and mouthed very slowly, Hi Jim. How’s it going?

In one retelling, the angel comes too late
and Isaac suffers the blade on the altar.
In another, he descends three days after,
born new in ash. Or was it Ishmael, white
robed and copper skinned, almost to Abraham’s height
when kneeling, true favorite son, who filtered
faith through shame? Sand in his eyes, who watched his father’s
hand midair, unsheathed, then God’s brusque tone, Wait?
See them gather at their father’s tomb, each grieving
son hero in rival histories. One still smells
ram burning in his place; one recalls the bending

It was the love of the game
not the money.
I was the hardest working bird
in Chinatown, always looking
for the block. Plus the smell
of rotisserie next door
helped me labor twelve hours a day
on electrified mesh. Then my beak
began to blunt, I saw Xs in my sleep,
squares and their reflections
overlapped. I was dying to brood,