POETRY October 1, 2025

Poem with a .12 Gauge in It

We walked by a mound of possum bones

on the way to Meadowbrook Apartments. A rattlesnake slid

across the dike’s padded path & into the tall grass.

Cutting through the old glass factory, I wanted to tell you I loved you,

like the wind wants to sleep after the far-off beating of the hayfields,

but I was tired & needed a hit. I needed a hit like the snow day prayers

we made as kids, clasping a wooden spoon under our pillow.

Those bones no longer feared the swollen earth,         the raging sky,

but I feared you in a small town & the ghost

you said you saw at midnight, who walked past

your bathroom door as you polished your work boots.

           At the plywood door of Alderman’s apartment, a narrow wedge

           of light lay on the pines in the distant mountains.

           You would’ve thought we were pigs, our knock a power ram,

           the way his girl pulled up the sawed-off from beside the couch

           & turned up both barrels.                 This was your idea, this buy,

           & somehow, I loved you even more. We just wanted a few grams,

           clean as marrow emptied of everything

           but spillways of darkness & a few flecks

           of buckshot. Despite the utter stillness of the room,

           a mirror on the far wall slipped, shattered, & shards of us pollinated the floor.

           She took a drag            then fired twice.

                                   Your ghost, you had said as we crossed Brisco Bridge, was gloom

                                   sidling into your bedroom. An old woman with black braids

                                   & a face obscured by tobacco smoke. Every night, as if on repeat,

                                   her lungs gave out:

                                   your bed creaked & you heard a sigh.

                                   When you went in—what was there? An empty room, an unmade bed.

One round exploded

into the plaster wall. The next, a halo-flash into your hip. You buckled to the floor.

If we wanted, we could have called this home. A thousand reflections of your life.

The next day it felt the same. But now, it’s an empty apartment

filled with deaf ringing. Now,

it is something in common. & like any old story,

we retell it at bars & around bonfires. We move close to hide from it.

This night returns to me often. You – on a carpet

dashed with cigarettes & weed stems, a black rope of blood flowing

out of your green wildgrass hip & around your leg.

I keep wanting to grab hold of your hand,

& every time find another reason to play dead.

Nathan Erwin is a poet and land-based organizer from the Allegheny Plateau, the northernmost tier of Appalachia. He currently operates with the Pocasset Wampanoag tribe as they fight for land, food, & seed sovereignty. His writing has recently appeared in the North American Review, Boulevard, The Journal, Gulf Coast, and Ninth Letter. His organizing and his poetry are conversant, and so he writes about foodways, myths, medicine, and wanting.
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