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Literature Text
I can't decide.
Am I the gun or the bullet?
Gun:
I am waiting for my trigger to be pulled,
releasing the weight of the bullet
and tossing out the powder of my accomplishments.
Then I am reloaded to repeat the process again
until I become jammed or broken, destroyed.
Bullet:
I am waiting to be released,
to fly through air and reach a target,
my destined target.
I cut a path with myself and reach an ending.
Am I the bullet or the gun?
Maybe you're both.
Am I the gun or the bullet?
Gun:
I am waiting for my trigger to be pulled,
releasing the weight of the bullet
and tossing out the powder of my accomplishments.
Then I am reloaded to repeat the process again
until I become jammed or broken, destroyed.
Bullet:
I am waiting to be released,
to fly through air and reach a target,
my destined target.
I cut a path with myself and reach an ending.
Am I the bullet or the gun?
Maybe you're both.
Literature
One, two, three
My boyfriend watched, open mouthed
as I unscrewed the lid of your urn,
and ran my fingers through your ashes.
Your depression, your soul dust.
I felt an ocean rolling under my ribs
and an urge to cradle your urn,
rock you back and forth
like you did for me when I was young.
-
At the funeral, my uncle announced
that you hated religion.
But he left out the part
where you did believe in a God,
just that he was always punishing you.
-
“There was nothing you could have done”
said the other uncle.
I think of all those spent wishes,
the birthday candles extinguished for gifts,
the meteor showers I wasted on love,
the prayers offered from
Literature
Birth Marked
Grandpa used to tell stories
about the night I was born,
said a lost sparrow with cockeyed feathers
hopped across my right shoulder
and left its mark.
Shifting the sheaf of hair
mom refused to cut short
and craning my neck,
I could just see the cluster
of sharp-edged W's etched like tattoos
across the scalloped scoop of my bones.
In summer heat waves,
I learned to weave my dark tangles into braids
and let the claw strokes breathe,
the thin straps of feather-print shirts
pushed out of the way.
On those days,
Grandpa claimed I could lift my arms, wing-like,
and fly myself into something new.
Today,
though the sun is high
and summer nears
Literature
It's The Distance, I Think.
It was sitting on our kitchen counter-
Brown glazed and curved, like her-
Perched next to the microwave.
I thought it would best hold
Her spatula and my two bamboo spoons.
She filled it with yellow tulips and
Pink carnations and hydrangea blossoms and
Told me to "Get your own spoon vase"
With bells in her voice and
Her cheeks dimpled and her eyes crinkled,
And I wrapped my arms around her waist and
Punished her back-sass by tickling her ribs until
We were a jumbled mess, strewn
Across the tile floor- with flushed cheeks and
Not a worry in the world.
These days, the curved brown jar
Sits next to my stove top and
Holds my two ba
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