I hope the half-blown

dress

over my shoulder—

I hope the gray hours—

whisper darts—

are enough.

 

I hope he’s alone

with geraniums

in his mouth.

 

Jason has an F-150

he takes to sailing

over the plains.

 

He buries

every bullet—

his brother’s—

every cabinet—

blown open.

 

& Jason knows

every approach

I’d take

my half-blown dress,

a whisper dart

over my shoulder.

 

I’d take his F-150

out sailing

over the plains.

 

Now I’m alone

with geraniums

in my mouth—

every bullet—

his brother’s—

every cabinet—

I open—

every approach

over my shoulder,

his head—a dart.