Every time a gun blasts out we drink
a shot. Every line we hear about reform,
we take a break. Our intake is measured
in wounds. Our outbreak is measured
with words. These exits are bolted shut
from bolt action cataclysms of outrage
and they keep jamming. Check the breach.
Our eyes are like drying sutures while we
unstitch old lies about regret and the inescapable.
In the new economy of timespans we can
remember—just hit replay and rewind and set
reminders—or the snooze button we all mash into
will become a shovel filled with dirt.
Unearth instead of bury. There are too many
memories of innocent targets, of intentional
trajectories easily built upon with a melting
of molten lead. If you believe in this
democracy let’s count the votes of everyone;
let’s count the hopes of everyone, let’s count
the dreams and schemes and screams of everyone—
both the living and the dead.
Kurt Cole Eidsvig is an artist and poet. His work has appeared in Hanging Loose, Slipstream, Borderlands, Main Street Rag, and other journals.
Photo by Zac Ong.