[LANDSCAPE WITH BLUR OF HYPERACTIVITy]
Light moves across this open field
with the speed of a fallen blackbird –
First, the rustle of feathers in my godfather’s hands.
Pay attention. Stop looking over there.
Then, the thistledown overrun by the four wheeler
which, when ridden bareback & saddleless, mudcakes
& burns the hairs off your shinbone.
Boy, I’m trying to teach you a life lesson here. In the distance, where lakewater
meets the trees’ knuckle drug roots, the sky twitches
Focus. The blackbird flutters in a dirt-aged fist.
Focus. My mother’s laugh echoes from the houseless porch.
Switchgrass sings the song of late afternoon.
My ears still ringing from the rifleshot –
my hands still shaking from the kickback –
my eyes still squeezed shut –
my mouth still whispering :
don’t think about it & it will all unexist.
ABOUT BRAD TRUMPFHELLER
Brad Trumpfheller is an undergraduate student at Emerson College. Their work has appeared in Lambda Literary, Winter Tangerine, Nashville Review, and elsewhere.