The Albion
I encompass the pistol,
the embellished creases of my hands in its mechanical embrace.
Although I thought it was I who embraced it.
Forwards, look ahead, he said. Aim and shoot.
And I do. And gun crime is illegal but shooting in the Albion is not
so it becomes a ritual. Aim and shoot, aim and shoot, aim and shoot.
It is rhythmic, therapeutic. O father, please warn me.
But he never did.
Pull the trigger again once more- but I am the unsung instrument of woe,
the metallic amalgamation whispers sacredly.
Too little too late did I hear the sound of warning but
Oh well, never mind. Father shoot me if you please.
It would be something to tell about
and the pistol encompasses me
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