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.
