can you take my
shotgun shells and press
them into your ears because
i don't think i can stomach them
by myself,
he says, whispers to me
feebly while he plops the
heat of skeleton weapons
into my hands.
i did what he asked,
but he never told me his name.
and now i am sitting here
with gunfire symphonies and no
identity to put to the trembling
fingers that composed them. did
he **** or was he killed?
did he love his friend more
than himself and is that why
he held his ****** hands
in his ****** lap and
cried, "death love me" ?
i am shaking and small--
so was he.
i do not know much else of him
but that his face was sunshine
leather and his eyes were purple
in the haze of ****** summer
and more than anything
he was so terrified;
he did not
want to eat
his shotgun shells
alone.