His psychic landscape, a straight line
dips toward the past,
while mine, curvaceous,
twists and tangles, ad infinitum.
I say, “another mother lost a son.”
A deer, a motorcycle,
drinking and driving;
the mother and father bereft.
He says, “I had a great day at the range,”
and shows me two targets circled in red;
the dots, edged in black
feel like an arrow piercing my heart.
I follow my curves into the past
toward something (the car flipped ejecting him)
I want to forget ad infinitum
and sob into a handkerchief lined in lace.
He talks of paper cartridges and brass bullets
I picture the motorcycle.
A paper cartridge, a bullet
Aimed at the family’s heart.
