American Dreams

1 Minute Read Time

This photograph shows a girl holding an American flag in front of a house, in the front yard. There is sunlight shining on the window and panes. — Photo by Akshat Jhingran on Unsplash

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A hot dog in the park becomes a handgun I take 
two bites from, fire a round at a low-flying plane.

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Mom bayonets the cake, chops the heads off candles
before I can find my tongue in the trash and make my wish.

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One minute I squirt some children with a garden hose, 
the next I sniper foreheads, the pale backs of their knees.

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Larry slides a bowl of bullets across the bar, shells 
cracking underfoot, the jukebox playing car alarms.

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Lifeguard towers in the sand sprout barbed wire, rifle 
fire sprayed at rolling surf, undertow tugging limbs.

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A limo driver loads my suitcase, then shoots my throat 
and leaves me in the gutter, my daughters looking down.

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I reach in the baby’s crib, pull a pistol from soil 
and nuzzle its sulfur-stung lips against my cheek.