Cowboy Up

Stalking-horse

There is a gun in a calm hand waiting hours, watching doors,
spying windows for shadows of childhood scars subtle beneath thick skin,
rejection tattooed upon denial, reprisal smiles through the grind of teeth
nervous in the day of light, hidden in the dark of night,

ravens creep shoulders, bobbing back and forth to a rhythm of apples

falling from a hanging tree I hide behind, huddle beneath,

ducking the swing of feet, the clay of emotions molded into the dagger

of Et tu, Brute? raised against a Cain, a cross I bear,

nailing me to a killing floor to sweep clean, scattering asunder
bleeding hearts to the four winds of the apocalypse I ride,
my stalking-horse trampling underfoot the forget-me-nots wild mane
across a gravesite where you will come to rest with nothing more than
a whisper, a glance, an aside going off in my hand.