A good boy

The gun’s grown old

and forgetful

but I have only grown old

because even now

my hands are half-closed

as though in an embrace

and my eyes are narrow

as though daylight didn’t bleed

and my breath is still

as though I need to stop someone elses’ lungs

to start my own

but I am only offered

some tea and muffins instead

and the cup slips from my fingers

and I’m told that these things happen

and I can see her breath shorten

while mine expands into

the muzzled cracks

and the red liquid stains

the carpet of hair

*

We write the people

we read and hear

back into existence

by mimicking their words

like my love’s last letter

and my mother’s apology for leaving

and a dog collar of Frank,

a good boy,

resting in my hand,

all of which can be summed up

in the bark

I’m sure Frank gave off

when he escaped,

a bark I’d share

if I left too

but someone has to find Frank

for he was a good boy

and so am I

and I can’t bark well yet

because I’m too busy

trying to parrot

the empty mouths around