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Description
The Morning, the Shotgun, and the Gate

While the whiskey sting loitered on my dry tongue,
While the wind’s dry tongue seared my groaning lungs,
While the chanticleer’s groaning lungs harrowed the dawn,
I was hoping the dust choked you on the way out of my gate,
(Just for a moment, fleetingly) while my husband looked for a gun.
I was watching you leave my house, and wondering if it was for good.

While the wind’s dry tongue seared my groaning lungs,
You marched through the gate like Caesar, like a proud man
You don’t answer to no man about a loyal wife’s rumpled sheets,
You don’t creep out the back door anymore—
Even when my husband’s tires crunch the gravel by the gate.
Even knowing for sure that he’d come after you if he caught us.

While the chanticleer’s groaning lungs harrowed the dawn,
And while the flecks on my dress snapped blackly in the breeze,
You fled from screen door, from me, your dignity intact and in tow,
And I knew you were never coming back to me.
I hoped that the guilt would smother you like dust,
Because you let him catch us, and by God, you weren’t running.

Even when you left by my gate, as a proud man,
Not turning when my husband picked up the shotgun,
Not even turning to look back at me, at me,
I was busy hoping that the dust choked you, even then.
But I could not say a word, a scrap of a word, to your back,
Not even after that bullet whined and shook my whole frame.

Those dry, lost words will sear on my tongue
And groan through my lungs for God knows how long.
And I wish I’d called you back,
And I wish I’d been following as proud as you,
And I wish instead it’d’a been us there at my gate,
While your whiskey sting still lingered on my tongue.

Description
The Morning, the Shotgun, and the Gate

While the whiskey sting loitered on my dry tongue,
While the wind’s dry tongue seared my groaning lungs,
While the chanticleer’s groaning lungs harrowed the dawn,
I was hoping the dust choked you on the way out of my gate,
(Just for a moment, fleetingly) while my husband looked for a gun.
I was watching you leave my house, and wondering if it was for good.

While the wind’s dry tongue seared my groaning lungs,
You marched through the gate like Caesar, like a proud man
You don’t answer to no man about a loyal wife’s rumpled sheets,
You don’t creep out the back door anymore—
Even when my husband’s tires crunch the gravel by the gate.
Even knowing for sure that he’d come after you if he caught us.

While the chanticleer’s groaning lungs harrowed the dawn,
And while the flecks on my dress snapped blackly in the breeze,
You fled from screen door, from me, your dignity intact and in tow,
And I knew you were never coming back to me.
I hoped that the guilt would smother you like dust,
Because you let him catch us, and by God, you weren’t running.

Even when you left by my gate, as a proud man,
Not turning when my husband picked up the shotgun,
Not even turning to look back at me, at me,
I was busy hoping that the dust choked you, even then.
But I could not say a word, a scrap of a word, to your back,
Not even after that bullet whined and shook my whole frame.

Those dry, lost words will sear on my tongue
And groan through my lungs for God knows how long.
And I wish I’d called you back,
And I wish I’d been following as proud as you,
And I wish instead it’d’a been us there at my gate,
While your whiskey sting still lingered on my tongue.