He explodes through the front door,
crashing the spring wreath
to the Pine-Sol tiles. She glares

at the hydrangeas and forsythias
clinging to the grapevine.
They know, he wheezes.

She packs the bags; he loads
the guns. She’s fed pain
like a stray cat, hoping it sticks

around. Now it sits on the toilet
snorting a line, then crams bricks
of money into pillowcases.

She wrings her hands under
the soft light above the kitchen sink.
The six-pane window is a mouth

with perfect teeth. A blue jay squawks
from a cedar fence, and from beyond
the lawn gnome and rusty swing set:

a disembodied reply.


# # #

Crosshairs by Joshua Michael Stewart
originally published July 21, 2010



Joshua Michael Stewart's poems have been published in Massachusetts Review, Rattle, Georgetown Review, William and Mary Review, Flint Hills Review, Pedestal Magazine, Evansville Review and Worcester Review. His chapbook Vintage Gray is available online.

For more of Joshua's work,
visit his Big Pulp author page


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