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Handgun
The muzzle in the hand, smooth and cool
the way the family dog’s was.
That sweet pup. Always at the ready.
There was a rope we sometimes tied her to.
Fraying. Her pacing and pacing
around the wrought iron railing till the cord wore down
and she’d take off running awhile.
Always came back. What was inside her,
keeping her steady, must’ve been just like that.
Something wearing until she wasn’t bound to us anymore,
and she broke. Bit a neighbor, then the baby.
No more time to bide. Too late
to come back. Left us nothing to rely on—
just this beauty: smooth and steady.
The Question of Fire
Because it pours color in its path.
Because all things in it come down to the bones of bones, some particles
more fundamental than dirt.
Because its roar reminds us of nothing.
Imagine a basket of flame: always emptying, always full.
Because it was begun from one word (tree) held too close
to another (lightning).
Because of embers, those handfuls of history, and the potential of matches—
a future that any careless carrying might ignite.
Because there is no net, no cure, no promise.
Because we have been captured.
Rapture: the first curl of smoke quickening into blue and how it grows up
the way a kiss surprises (only lips on lips yet
the body suffused with ticking)
so that suddenly it’s a real engine-red.
The fingers of grass along the alley know it
but lean in anyway and are consumed.
Because it calls to be fed and feeding will never surfeit.
Because to live is to hunger and nothing is more alien
and more familiar than the hunger of another.
--Copyright c 2005 by Tin House. May not be reproduced without permission.