He explodes through the front door,
crashing the spring wreath
to the Pine-Sol tiles. She glares

at the hydrangeas and forsythias
clinging to the grapevine.
They know, he wheezes.

She packs the bags; he loads
the guns. She’s fed pain
like a stray cat, hoping it sticks

around. Now it sits on the toilet
snorting a line, then crams bricks
of money into pillowcases.

She wrings her hands under
the soft light above the kitchen sink.
The six-pane window is a mouth

with perfect teeth. A blue jay squawks
from a cedar fence, and from beyond
the lawn gnome and rusty swing set:

a disembodied reply.

 

# # #

Crosshairs by Joshua Michael Stewart
originally published July 21, 2010