Blue
I stand there under the high limbs of locust
watching my father point a black gun into the air
his arms steepled for the stillness
required to split the proverbial hair
with a BB. I would like to throw a red hat
to catch what will smack from the barrel
but instead the songbird drops fast—a warm
stone through liquid swimming between us.
The stink of yellow sulfur thick. And the twist
of his mouth, like tangled purple boughs
or crossed legs of what he never dreamed he'd hit.
Years after, I will admit only to so much. Blue
moon tomorrow. Do we ever get a second
chance? It's what I don't say that speaks loudest.
Copyright Credit: Katrina Roberts, "Blue" from Friendly Fire. Copyright © 2008 by Katrina Roberts. Reprinted by permission of Lost Horse Press.
Source: Friendly Fire (Lost Horse Press, 2008)