target practice (poem)
but i know me a devil when i see one. my mama taught me all about that.
I saw this photo and knew immediately I had to write something for it. This was a pretty quickwrite with only slight polishing. I hope it’s rawness serves its purpose.
i.
i watched my mother take a
bullet
to the brain. the same blood that slid
hot across my own bones streamed warm
and wet between her two unblinking eyes.
sky-black, full noir, no more stars in
either of our skies.
to be there and gone
in an instant at the hands of
a rifle-man who thought he could
play god in these woods.
talking slur-drunk about how he don’t
need no target practice to shoot down
a bitch with his two eyes closed.
but i know me a devil when i see
one. my mama taught me
all about
that.
ii.
i seek her in pieces, still. an apparition of
what i once loved. faux-fawn of foreign
plastics and bolts built into
something stronger, armored --
guarded.
a thing with no live pulse to remind me
of the womb that once carried my
still-forming body but enough
of a semblance that
i suckle anyways.
i swore i’d never again love
something with a blood river running.
but to be able to touch something that
cannot die,
that can take a bullet and still blink,
tells me maybe that rifle-man
knew something about being holy
after all.
sobbing