by Avalon Felice Lee
At once, my gun loses it
& the wall behind you
is splattered
the pink
of your brilliant mind.
Finding nothing else,
the wound grasps
for an answer.
Look.
My grip was one-handed. I only meant
for the bang
to shock us
into loving again, baby.
The way thunder leaves
a city: staticky
yet skin-to-skin. Fists forgiven
for their knuckles.
Lightning—
just a shadow
on our brighter bodies
like genealogy. Don’t worry.
You’re not your father’s son
because you’re here, shoulders
broad as daylight.
Stay like that, baby. Tall,
T-shirt white. Eyes taking
me in. Arms spread
around a forest
patient for trees.
This way I can excuse you
into art.
Handsomest at a distance
like a brushstroke. A horizon
thick enough
to mistake
for blood.
About the Author
Avalon Felice Lee is a writer. She received nominations for a Pushcart Prize and Best Small Fictions 2022. Her words are published or forthcoming in storySouth, Scapegoat Review, The Boiler, Atlas and Alice, Brain Mill Press, and elsewhere. She is studying writing and literature at the College of Creative Studies in UC Santa Barbara. Find her on Instagram at @avalonfelicelee.