Nature gives you two loud gunshots &
a large lemonade & tells you: that’s it.
Learn to love it or leave it. You decide
to learn to love it, & three weeks later
another gift; This time it’s in your state,
and without any damn ice. Again,
Nature gives you the same ultimatum.
There are two ways out—by bullet
or by mouth—and you & I both know
which way you’d prefer.
Bullet holes in Time Magazine pages
from used magazine cartridges
are the numbered dots we connect
for fun. I trace from 6,740 to 6,741
& it’s just July & it’s just deaths
& it’s just America. I grew up with
firearms in my house.
When I was younger, punishment
meant going to the rifle range
with my state trooper
father. Bullet holes
in Time Magazine pages
are the constellations
of my zodiac—I am
not a Capricorn. I am
a Remington. Have you ever
spent time pondering Washington
stars? Remind me
once more. My memory is hazy.
When you’re out here in Michigan, kids
speak in Morse code
& nicknames. When you’re out
here in Michigan, kids speak
in lipstick & fish scales. Out here
in Michigan, kids fly
the confederate flag & you know
it must be about race, because we were
once a part of the Union,
so you must not want to secede.
I can tell you the difference
between a mass & a serial
& a spree, & it’s not the candy. We are
millennials. We know
a cold case when we see one.