by Adam Sifre
Hot cappuccino, with a splash of sweet whipped cream,
pure liquid, heated treat.
Warm and lush going down.
She served him pie she knew was ruined.
Then stood there, practically daring him to say something. She watched him choke down each dry, charred, mouthful.
In barely a whisper,"i burnt it on purpose ."
over and over, like a cliched suburban mantra.
Her husband didn't hear her, but the boy did. He heard and remembered.
Years later, when his wife burned dinner, he was ready.
Everything was in place, solid.
At rest. Ordered.
Now life is sixes and nines,
new parts exposed, others buried under ruins.
Emotions torn away from natural progression,
tumble and swirl, rise and fall.
We run on false bedrock, unstable ground.
Every step together, a spin of the chamber -
barrel pointed at the heart.
To move? Insanity.
pull the trigger.
One more step.