Blue
I stand there under the high limbs of locust
watching my father point a black gun into the air

his arms steepled for the stillness
required to split the proverbial hair

with a BB. I would like to throw a red hat
to catch what will smack from the barrel

but instead the songbird drops fast – a warm
stone through liquid swimming between us.

The stink of yellow sulfur thick. And the twist
of his mouth, like tangled purple boughs

or crossed legs of what he never dreamed he’d hit.
Years after, I will admit only to so much. Blue

moon tomorrow. Do we ever get a second
chance? It’s what I don’t say that speaks the loudest.