45

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.