My ex-husband hired a Private Iowan to follow me day in and day out. He latched onto my license plate to see where I went, hid on the backs of quarters to see what I bought. He stood outside my window all summer, swaying in the breeze and pretending to be a corn stalk. He got a job as a news anchor and covered the election, stared me down in my democracy. He dressed up as Buddy Holly and lay motionless on my front lawn, came back the next day as The Big Bopper. His finale: still-bloody hawk’s eyes on the porch, blazing with rapt gaze. I could, if I looked closely enough, almost find my husband in their pupils. He sat somewhere nearby, talons sunk tight around a branch, blind and alone.
Evan Williams is a student at the University of Chicago. His work has appeared or is forthcoming from HAD, HAD, and HAD, among others. He's working on finding a home for his first collection of poems and finishing a book of speculative nonfiction about masculinity, body image, and destroying G.I. Joe. He tweets @evansquilliams.