The compacted soil soaking up the blood
Of two generations, father and son,
Their ghosts resting on the same rock, beyond time,
Ballooning clouds of misty red crawling up their stomach,
Wheezing, their breath shallow, rushed, pained,
Beads of swear sparkling on their forehead,
Both eyes wide-set and deep, like father and boy,
Their dried lips shivering imperceptibly,
Their hand on the cavity, thick blood
Running through their fingers,
Coagulating on their palms,
Their legs yawningly stretched, as if relaxing,
Both long and thin, like Papa and little Philip.
They both turn on their heels.
Their pistols rest against their sides, cocked.
Eyes locked, they breathe slow, in rhythm, in unison.
A blackbird departs from the branch of a tall tree.
Time drips slow, like molasses.
Pressure, aching pressure, collects in his chest.
The creased pockets of his mouth curl up.
He lifts his pistol, it’s so light.
A pocket of air bursts.
Blackbirds on hidden branches scatter.
He crumples to the ground.
The pistol weighs heavily on Papa’s straightened arm,
He lifts it toward the treetops and pulls
The hair-trigger, light as air.
He lowers the pistol,
Pulling his boots together,
Cocking his chin across the ten paces
That rush ahead like a mile.
He crumples to the ground.
And still, and still,
Those heavy vibrations of the piano
Reverberate in a stately room
Devoid of life.