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a poem by Jason L. Huskey (1 of 2)

Fast, Furious

There's no letter today,
no update from the border.
Tomás closes the rusted lid

as a car's backfire mimics gunfire
three driveways away. He scrapes
himself from the pavement and hurries

inside. On TV, attractive white women
read bullet points about dead families,
brought to silence by AK47 hellfire

without a hint of Washington desire.
His mother changes the channel,
knowing the fate already:

Wild men with automatic weapons are
rarely insincere. She lies to Tomás,
tells him his papa called and whispered

everything will be all right. Brutish
factions cut off the heads of fathers
so mothers must lie to their sons.

Sons already reaching for fire --
to strike pin to primer and
breathe the smoke of physics.

And fidgeting men in suits deny
they let the guns walk, the arms
that embraced three hundred

Mexicans in their seizures seconds
before succumbing. Tomás grabs
his father's rabbit rifle -- the right of

free men at war. And given
an ample line of sight, even a .22
will twitter the seismic nerve.

© by Jason L. Huskey
Gutter Eloquence Magazine ~ Issue #22 ~ July 2012    next poem