Rorschach pools gather again.
We look outside, breath condensing at the window
as we fervently seek to find The Stranger, our adversary.
We double-lock our doors
as the slate-gray burn singes our nostrils.
At our feet, casings for rosary beads.
We kneel, and bow, and recite our catechism.
“Hail Pistol, full of protection
I need no one but you with me.
Blessed are you among weapons,
and blessed be the fruit of your womb, Bullet.
Holy Pistol, mother of Safety,
cover our weaknesses and fears now
and ward the hour of our death.”
This god does not hear the thump of flesh on concrete,
cannot smell acrid, sweating fear as the lambs run,
cannot taste the blood you feed it.
We look outside, seeking The Stranger,
while those we keep, coddle, then ignore
creep at our backs, mouthing prayers
to a senseless god, and reloading.
-C. G. Brown
Dedicated to far too many.