Pathological
A gun to his heart
a bullet struck a rib on its way
to the living room wall
I knew a boy
struck by lightening in the third grade
and again in the fourth
In April my legs gave way
like a rainy day
I tumbled down the cliffside
I suspect she killed her husband
last autumn, in the evening
I heard crunching
A beam of light
cut through the tree line
and took the cow across the pier
I was birthed speaking
syllabic sentences
and passionate paragraphs
My first words were,
“Don’t trust a thing,”
because it’s pathological, I promise
