a poem by Jason L. Huskey (1 of 2)
no update from the border.
Tomás closes the rusted lid
three driveways away. He scrapes
himself from the pavement and hurries
read bullet points about dead families,
brought to silence by AK47 hellfire
His mother changes the channel,
knowing the fate already:
rarely insincere. She lies to Tomás,
tells him his papa called and whispered
factions cut off the heads of fathers
so mothers must lie to their sons.
to strike pin to primer and
breathe the smoke of physics.
they let the guns walk, the arms
that embraced three hundred
before succumbing. Tomás grabs
his father's rabbit rifle -- the right of
an ample line of sight, even a .22
will twitter the seismic nerve.