They dress in clothes not their own

And are of indeterminable gender.

When the lights are out and the

Windows are masked by extendable steel,

They leap from their pedestals on which

-

They have stood until their limbs are so stiff and rigid

That when they walk their arms are still bent

And their hips are still pushed to one side

So that their shape is symmetrical and good.

This makes for awkward walking, but they teeter

-

Through the streets on legs lacking feet, supported

Instead by steel rods running down their backs,

Of the same sort that hold their arms on just so.

They slip through doorways like ghosts, like the dead

And try on faces one by one, pulling them from their owners

-

Like Halloween masks with as little consequence.

They have become expert surgeons, and sew faces

Back on one by one, and one by one

They find the one they like and put it on to stay.

They pull the rods from their backs, from their arms

-

And pull out tendons, muscles, and hearts

For themselves to shove into their chests

And leave a man without a face, a woman without arms.

They can be seen dragging these newly-made models.

Through the streets in bags to the warehouse

-

Where they assign them a shift in the store down the street

And tell them what clothing to wear and what aisle to stand in.

These are the people with plastic faces

The man whose ears are just a bit crooked or the woman

Born missing an arm, because they forgot to get it

-

When they were busy pulling out veins.

Now those who lack faces must steal from others,

Though there’s an unspoken rule that it can’t be

The one they had before.