<

–

and I reckon it’s the right thing to do, to call in the priest and
get it over with quickly, her suffering calls the wrong comparisons.

and hats are removed when someone dies, out of respect. ‘cause
I reckon that nobody dies with a hat on, that hats fall off right quick.

and so she died: sick, blue-faced and in a barn, the sun high-fiving the sky,
the afternoon hummin’ and kickin’ rocks, the surrounding nature warm as a smile.

and like in everything I write, there is a deep paranoia of these bisecting forces:
the time, the trees, the cheat codes of our youth, the buckshot, the barn, the truth.

and now, hereditary quirks, and the noons that ended a long time ago, when Michigan
was the same, and my ancestors knew way more about guns than I know.

and I reckon a retconn is in order, the removal of the last reload the lady ever heard,
the whirr of mechanics I’m unsure of, as meaningless and sonorous as the birds I can’t identify.

Like the gun, I’m trying desperately
to end this properly.

END