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I am

see what

just one quarter.

the joystick.

kick

and reach

the latest

I reveal.

Place

Move the claw

the box,

through

prize machine.

I am new

your hand

inside my stomach.

tilt me sideways.

the dark hole.

Play me well—

and cheap,

onto

If it misses,

Bend down

You’ve won:

a person.

Who is it?

A burger flipper

or chicken plucker,

An Uber driver or big-rig trucker,

an internet stripper

or motherfucker,

a babysitter

No,

or single-mom,

a banker,

a prison dweller

a doctor,

or homeless teen—

a world-class lawyer—

                                                                                        A piercing yawp,

                 or a cold blue silence,               No,

                                              a fist of blood,

                                                                                          and a small

                                                                                                                      dead body.

Sir, 
a claw’s 
no good 
if it hasn’t 
won;
insert 
another 
quarter
on 
my 
tongue. 

Photo credit: Jon Tyson

Katie Kemple (she/her) is a poet, parent, and consultant based in San Diego. Her poems have appeared recently, or are forthcoming, on <i>Atlanta Review</i>, <i>Matter</i>, <i>Anti-Heroin Chic</i>, and <i>Lunch Ticket</i> (<i>Amuse-Bouche</i>).

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