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25 Sniper Somewhere a woman is beginning to suspect her husband. Oh, the warning signs, she knows—his rants, political hatreds, but she loves the way his dark eyes taper, his nostrils flare. After sex with him she sleeps in the crook of his arm. She laughs with his sister. She helped bury his mother. I am here, trying to hate him. Standing by the swollen river, I study the place he jumped. He hides under the water. He can’t hear the dogs, baying their manhunt into the pine trees. I want to call to him. Swim! Get away! When I return to my life, beside you, they are bearing out his last victim, and the TV says mystery, says he’s got no pattern, unlike the Zodiac killer, who scribbled a big dipper of death across our city. The sniper ventures into malls now, like an addict on heroin. They say he needs a bigger hit each time. To hunt him, they tell us, they’ve rented infrared detectors. America wants him dead. We tend bonfires of hatred. We are lit from the inside with hatred. Hatred binds us together. I close my eyes and try to hold him steady enough to hate him, but it’s her face I see, readable as my sister’s. She’s opening a can of soup. I step into her kitchen, past his gun, leaning against the wall. I can’t stop myself from taking her face in my hands. She would love anything. She will never forget the good in him. ...


Additional Information

Related ISBN
MARC Record
Launched on MUSE
Open Access
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