I Am My Own Elephant Gun,Jennifer L. Knox
the sun that the blew the stars out the grin that pulled its teeth out and left them wandering around the airport, tied to a parking meter, bleeding in a elevator, thrown from a car on the Triborough bridge, thump under the tire, tired of washing my mouth out and the candles guttering out, of awake so early after up so late, of up so late and dogless with tall boys, dogged by silent phones, by one ringing phone in which of the unlit windows, by all the slits in the meat to be filled with slivered garlic, by the garlic to be slivered and (mon dieu) a brand new knife, my bloodbath runeth over, puncheth three holes at once through an inch of gauzy onion skin, I am the wad of pink plastique that took the old stone bridge down, shaking my head, playing dead, the dead who played dead ‘til was dead.
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