I put your gun in my mouth

what else could fill this space anyway?

I put your gun in my mouth.

And it was you; point-blank stare, L-shaped hair line, impossible to bite through, a giant’s shoulder ripping out of a nose, but most of all,

welcome.

What else could fill this space anyway, milk? Everything else I plant has grown to wilt.

I nudged it against the roof of my mouth. And it was breakfast this morning. Your finger tearing into the neck of the juice-box.

Like a semi-automatic drilling into a doorknob.

I ran my tongue down its side. And it was iron. Like when you’ve bitten down your tongue reaching for me. Wait, that’s wrong.

You never have to reach.

I’m always at hand; at the foot of the bed. At the foot of the fridge.

Pulling the trigger.

It wouldn’t hurt. Not like they think. Mud to Confetti. Bone shards flying sharper than cupid’s arrow. An explosion of eternal spaghetti.

You blow balloons till they pop. And look, a forever one. Snapping back to place. Mud to confetti to mud again.

I’m heaven. A pillow over a very patient head.

photograph by Gordon Magnin.