alone.
You ring, quickdraw, your voice a pellet in my ear, and hear me groan. You’ve wounded me. Next time, you
speak after the tone. I twirl the phone, then squeeze the trigger of my tonge, wide of the mark. You choose your
spot, then blast me through the heart. And this is love, high noon, calamity, hard liqour in the old Last Chance
saloon. I show the mobile to the sheriff; in my boot, another one’s concealed. You text them both at once. I reel.
Down on my knees, I fumble for the phone, read the silver bullets of your kiss. Take this … and this … and this
… and this … and this …
I wear the two, the mobile and the landline phones,
like guns, slung from the pockets on my hips. I'm all