I’m tired of the 45
in my mouth
in our thoughts
metal element of hate
invading the phone calls from Aunt Wendy who asks, “how’s ‘em earthquakes?”
The cold 45 in the steamed-up locker room
hefty and heavy heaving heralded hatred with rhetoric of
this is America’s gun.
my mouth is still fucking trying to spit this 45 out
I’d pay to find the body of a 45 in my backyard.
I can see it now
the barrel fired too much and turned
orange and hot and grabbed whatever it wanted by the pu—
I still love you, 45—that took something from my tongue.