All My Dad Will Leave Behind Are Bullets

by September 2, 2023 0 comments

HOWDY, Y’ALL! welcome mat and
WE DON’T DIAL 9-1-1 tin six-shooter.

The world ends repeatedly by a Baptist
God bless you! shout no one wants to talk back—
a gunshot.

Full bloom loving bullets in organs hunting for a heart
as cold triggers pass down in a last name
belonging to the greenest side of the neighborhood fence.

Red letter gun powder fingers twist numberless knobs
to bring air-conditioned comfort from open windows.

99 degree days stay longer than love as 99 bullets dwindle
bored on the prowl for bodies, ring fingers on pistol grips.
Walnut butts wear steel only in hopes it’s seen as true love.

No wife kisses him in a king’s bed one deadbolt away from
wet Bandera de México boots out of rolled Chevy windows
parked as close to transplanted tree gray shade as noon allows.

Good work on the crape myrtles, amigos!
But we won’t be waiting for magnolias.

Don’t mumble language but my own. Remember
who you don’t live next door to. Hands off
the trees we don’t grow. Don’t dare
date our daughters.

Tacked on god-given rights aim to protect Jesus’s good grace but
offer no prayers children grow free an adult’s torture instruments.
Don’t speak. Don’t vote. Don’t shop. Don’t take root in our dirt.

Break your body to build heartland backyard Baptismal waters
through buried secret pets, dismal grave plot rose beds.
Screen doors lock out questions.

Whose earth is this earth? My Earth, my welcome mat,
the grown good side of Genesis before wilt burned rot
and foretold plagued white boy border wars across town.

There’s flowered forested Hell out there,
it’s not y‘all but you all who don’t know
how blessed I am Eden was planted for me
and grew for you to see.

editors note:

Border policy propounded by a purist. – mh clay

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