Welcome to the Firing Squad
To the executioners I am a deafening horror.
I have lost the chance to cut out the corpse
that lodges in my veins, so they give me “the works”:
seven .30 caliber rifles pointed at my face and the whole thing flies ice and coal.
Am I now, I guess I am “all buttoned up,” ticketed and shitless
on the caravan ride home.
Regardless of teeth chattering, I’ve had no disgorge or silence,
only some negation. I keep dreaming of it
because my brain remembers what happened between living
and departure, agony and, then, extinction.
Shot at close range, my body is still sentient and vile,
nothing more than gone, tongue-lashed,
wicked and feral, holding up soft jaws.
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