writing

Deserted

There are two bullet holes
and three closed fists
and a bird crashing into the highway
with stones tied to each wing.
And I don’t know who you are
and I can’t remember
who I was supposed to be for you
… mighty despot.
And the cries are heard
seething in from the desert.
You will remember me –
and I promise the recollection
to be a savory search,
reaching back over miles
and mice
and minutes spent in the rapture
of near-death.
Those reptiles lay ahead of you.
You are left to fulfill the expectations
of more masterful gods.
That good-night is golden …
the death of sentiment awaits your arrival.
Birds dashed against the pavement,
a dish fit only
for regal mouths
with an appetite for sand.

~ Andrea E. Janda

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