The Gunslinger | Poetry | Hudson Valley | Chronogram Magazine
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The Gunslinger 

You came to me with the effortless

swagger of an arms dealer.

You lifted me up and polished

my brass knuckles. I laughed,

at the blood on your boots.

It hadn't even dried yet.

Bruised, bloodied and bent at awkward angles,

I ran. I would have gotten away too,

if my mouth hadn't caught on

a piece of barbed wire.

I have gunpowder on my lips

and I feel the cold steel

click against my molars.

Stop me, before my teeth

become a necklace.

Stop these words from ripping

through my throat, exposing

and showering our audience with what

normally hides behind skin, bones, and lipstick.

Instead, crack your ribs, my love,

and show me where it hurts.

I'll show you the way my grenade ticks

right after you pulled the pin.

Let me feel the heat

from the napalm you call

a soul. Let it flush my skin

like some messed up rouge. Don't you know?

Agent Orange is the new black.

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