this is not a dream and
the gun is not yours,
it's your father's.
the broken glass of his
voice the only gift
he passed down to you
so put the gun back
in the drawer and go
back to sleep.
do you remember the last
thing he tied to the roof
of his truck?
how his finger looked
when he pulled the trigger?
I'll teach you how to do this some day
when I have the time, he told you
one morning, so early that the sun
was still gray with sleep.
he laid on his belly in those
woods for eight hours
before that deer got close
enough to shoot.
you wonder why they only
wait this long
when there's something
to kill
YOU ARE READING
Monsters Are Human
PoetryShe was poetry in a world still learning the alphabet. [ Just poems I found on Tumblr.] [ I do not own any of these!! ] [ The first few are horse poems. But it gets better. ] #230 in Poetry - 1 June 2016
