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Since knowledge is but sorrow's spy, it is not safe to know.”- William Davenant
-
Midnight Smoke
the barrel of a
gun
is hard,
cold
to the touch.
i know this
because since 15, i have
stood
at the shooting range
for hours
and
hours
under the nebraska sun
hair tangled in the california wind
thoughts drenched beneath the new york rain
dripping onto the gravel dotting
my boots with
color
to a
slick, oiled
black
you could buy for
19 dollars at
the old shoe cobbler
between east and abbey road
that was when
terror
could bring out the
shaking hands of a
scared teenage girl with
shifting mahogany hair that
almost seemed bronze under the sunset at
6 pm
that was
when the sun used to shine in nebraska
and the rain tasted of fresh water
the very sound
of a pulled trigger
stalls, stumbles precisely
through the oasis of serenity
amidst the moon’s gaze of
a lifeless night
the metal bites,
stings,
heaven-like,
impatiently.
take the taxi
past the street where
the “closed” sign with fraying edges and
flaked paint hangs, the
empty, hollow building
of the dead shoe cobbler
they say
run
when you see the
midnight smoke,
for it is the
thunderous clap that
sounds
before and the blood chilling
screams that follow
after i ran
with the smoldering
wind
whipping behind my dyed platinum blonde hair, high heeled boots
clicking past the seconds i live,
breathing
realize,
father said once;
a gun can only
be guilty
in the dirty hands of men
who dare hold their
children
as weapons
i run
past the new york skyscrapers,
the taxis,
the shooting range
i outrun
the sun, wind & rain
with a smith & wesson model 459
pressed to my ribcage
trembling with
pound of my beating heart
my breath
a world of fog
that only the shoe cobbler can now see
Cover page by Yifei Wang
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