by Craig Evenson
Content Warning: This poem contains contemplations of suicide that may be difficult for some to read.
I forget how old I was when I saw my grandpa’s rifle leaning in a corner of the entryway, sat down on a stool, set my head on the end. But I remember well the excitement of the void, the wormhole, the All; still, waiting, my own, the kiss of my skin and the polished trigger, the gentle pressure, anticipating the triumphant click, another secret to keep when, for no reason— I recall well the missing reason— I turned it around, worm-holed the fridge, and they came running from the dining room, Later, decades, someone said the blood drained from my face, but I don’t think it did.
Craig Evenson is a public school teacher. His poems have appeared in various publications, such as Barrow Street, The Louisville Review, and Midwest Quarterly. He lives in Minnesota.