Butterfly

Every night, the picture comes to kill me:
you and the baby, walking to the bedroom

You tie an American flag around his eyes
then sit in the kitchen and study your final option
silver and cold to the touch

When did the math arrive at this?
How many drunks, flare-ups
divorces, pregnancies, bad dreams?

Hold an invisible gun in your hand.
Pull the trigger.
Feel how it flexes a muscle
All the way back to the elbow.
The finger cannot do this work alone.

Every night, I stand next to you
in a field in Atlanta
as you bring the metal to your chest
And I ask you,
What were your last thoughts?
Why didn't you think of calling me?

 

Appetizer

Spent my whole life
waiting for the next pitch

Foul ball
foul ball
turn your head whack!
home run

South Side Pittsburgh night I order
mushroom caps
filled with crab, topped with parmesan

The trick is to order one thing
and enjoy it immensely

 

Michael J. Vaughn is the author of the novel Frosted Glass, just released by Dead End Street LLC. His poems have appeared in more than 40 journals, on- and off-line, and he is the fiction editor of the old-fashioned, non-electronic The Montserrat Review.

Please contact Michael J. Vaughn in care of [email protected]