Moving Targets Don’t Become Lunch

Safety is dead, vulture heart, sinking
ship, bullet-holed sign inked
“No Trespassing; Here Be Monsters”
growing from gravel, a tree grown
from a gravestone seed the size of
sufficient faith, tinier than mountains
of sand. Viking funerals sell one-way tickets,
and the trip is worth buckets of water.
This is not your mother’s hug before
your first day of kindergarten, this is not
a blanket of fur to incubate your quivering
heart, this is a loaded gun held in your
own hand, your wretched voice
demanding respect, sounds of awful,
hungry cries longing for the salty gash
of your piss-soaked skin. Shoot point blank,
take no prisoners, and forget, because
this place hates you and knows you
love it back.


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