24
Two poems by Margueritte Harrold
funk fugue
I misread the lyric
Read cave as grave
Over and over
A record skipping
A groove etched in us all
bearing arms
My mother was a loaded shotgun
Ruggedly sawed off at the tip
Ready to flip metal fragments
Into anything that displeased her
Or sometimes just because
Maybe she wanted to change
The color of the sky
And the person closest to her was the perfect pallet
Maybe exploding over and over again
Filled the holes in her
She accepted her purpose better than the rest of us
She modified herself to function
The purpose of a shotgun is to put holes in things
And you can't blame the gun for that