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
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