Target Practice


My mother is a bullet proof vest,
shock absorber,
target.
My father is a loaded gun,
with bullets made of painkillers and tequila
The pills slow everything to a stop,
like his kidney,
his liver,
his heart.
The tequila awakens ancient demons
A haunting past rises from the shadows and clouds his eyes
His lost green eyes
I am lost in his eyes
In them, I see the man my mother married
In them, I see a prisoner held at gunpoint
I look into his eyes as I look down the barrel of a shotgun,
nervous,
bracing for impact.
My mother is the safety
The single switch holding back disaster
My father is the disaster
And I am held at gunpoint,
Looking down a barrel,
Searching for the man my mother married.

Poem Rating:
Click To Rate This Poem!

Continue Rating Poems


Share This Poem