Self-Portrait in Wooden Chair The back twinges from bend-ing over to reach a metalplate. Rations are mouthed& chewed, prisoner fashion.Each step to get here was measured,clamped in a book gildedwith ornate gold curl. My hairgrows short. I take blamefor the words of the dead. Rememberwhat I said? Each night whenyou’re alone think of my tonguetrilling this bone song. Brokenanchor. Electric wire. The real touchfelt below the thin fake skin. Two Weeks with Don Quixote 1 We’re riding toward the hill, built fastwith machines braided with manymoving parts. Down the well our armswave like wings, catching little pebblesin the crook of the nail. Stick closeto the armor. The nag needs oats.The princess, he whispers, wears pink 2 underwear. This string stings if tied too tight.Toward the end he made a constantclucking sound. He touched my shoulderwhile staring straight into the ground.The sea is vast & wide with many floating colors.We move our arms quick as to fly away.The sea is vast & wide with many floating colors. Charles Kell is a PhD student at The University of Rhode Island and editor of The Ocean State Review. His poetry and fiction have appeared in The New Orleans Review, The Saint Ann’s Review, IthacaLit, and elsewhere. He teaches in Rhode Island and Connecticut.