It's All in the Wrists, Said Ted Bundy

by Donal Mahoney

The others, of course, are more rabid than I
but less apt to show it. 

Whenever I strike, I never romp off. 
I stand with the wrist that I've snatched

from the lady locked in my teeth
as I wait with a smile for the wagon.

As one of the few wrist-snatchers 
still on the streets of Chicago,

I make all of my rounds in old tennies.
I dive for the purse hand, give it a whack, 

and sever the wrist without slobber,   
then stand like a Vatican Guard

with her wrist in my teeth until
I am certain I have no pursuers. 

In my dreams every night I can see 
all of those women whose wrists 

I have had in my teeth. 
They stand at their bus stops 

like Statues of Liberty,
shrieking and waving their stumps like flares 

as I wait for their screams 
to bring to a frieze 

the patrol cars glowing  
in the middle of the street.