Devin Gribbons

There are no want-ads for stealth assassins. No signs
on windows that read Help Wanted: Bad Ass Mother
Fuckers apply within. It used to be that my blade
was the only résumé I needed and the only reference
required was a death toll. Now employers don’t seem
to care that I can make my sword sing in 5 languages,
and men scream in 9 more, that I have severed heads

of state and scaled walls like gravity followed my feet.
I can remember when my boss would smile
when I told him I could fashion a handful of
throwing stars into a constellation known as one
dead motherfucker, when people would mistake me
for my shadow and my movements for the wind. I remember
when my uniform was silence and twelve men

dead was a slow night. It used to be all slish-slash-blood-bath
but now my sword is speckled with rust, and instead of waiting
for the right moment to strike I wait in the unemployment line.           
People who could have only guessed at my existence spit
in my face and yell get a job you worthless ninja scum.
My eyes used to be the only thing I shared with the world
but now I keep them on the ground.