Heavy Hand

Heavy Hand above, her shadow underneath
the carpet. Broom Bristles whistle and
Heavy Hand tremors. A fist in the air grabs
a pistol. Heavy Hand, Heavy Hand.

Heavy Hand above, her finger at
the hole where the eyes meet the bullet.
You spray paint white and sanitize; Bristle, Bristle.

Carpet turns to rug so we slip alas.
Heavy Hand breaks my wrist and Broom Bristles
are lying—no, laying—next to her.

My wrist bleeds out and shoots itself. Baggy eyes see
nothing but wreaths of dark.

You prick her finger and she doesn’t bleed blue.
Heavy Hand and Broom Bristles: a tale as old as two.