Written by H. Tinsley
three Econoline-smoked minutes into the desert dusk, you’re ready
to I-told-you-so: “scorpions,” you rankle, “are lef’ well enuf alone
t’effervesce under rocks.”
and you gnaw the words too old for this, too old
while you fumble batteries for a taclight
you’d just as soon leave off.
“pigs ya can’t see in the dark, with sweet razor teeth’ll smell y’sweat,
mile-an’a-half-downwind. fat as a hunkerin’ fate, but quicker.
you want us t’sit til midnight an’ spot sum burnin’ space rocks?”
what worries me most is tobacco brown slobbing-up your gingham
checks; long-dying odors: ramen, beef; calling me by my father’s
name as if favor rules your recall.
spaceward, I sense your coming paragons. hurling the miles-per-second,
grinding themselves, churning iron to fire to fatal light. color slamming
the remaining pause, ending their orbital remission.
.
H. Tinsley is a divorced military veteran, PhD candidate and terrorism analyst born in Ohio, writing in Arizona. His work has appeared in Circle Show, littlesomethingspress, and Blueline.