It was a loaded question, and the answer had a trigger finger.
Eyes searched for words
plucking them like almonds, hard in their shells
stuffing them down the barrel of your mouth
Sighted through your cross hairs
I consider to deflect...
minimize the target
roll myself up like a down comforter
but I'm tired of the limp bone of cowardice
which subtracts my mass
reduces me from building to vestibule
from blocks, to cinder
like so much rubble
and so to then unfurl...
a sail intent to catch wind
be moved
forcefully moved, from harbor to open sea
I spread my arms
expose thumping target
feel it pierced before sound
as I explode into a thousand tiny grains
for the moment forgetting I was ever a building
an oak
an almond
knowing only that now
I am particulates, scratching between lids and eyes
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
