Paramount

Loaded, she could have

taken a shot

at his intentions. High-

postured, shaking like

a spent cartridge.

He pulls cat hair
from the barrel. Fine mess

you have all made. Piss

moisture licks at his shoes. The names
in his address book slouch

in an inky draw. Rat carcasses

dot the floor. He teeters
paint cans on a mound

of silenced fur. Well, she agreed.

The rank spray of memory
burrows into the barn wall
with dust and lead. ¿Cómo 
se dice “alive”? He coughs.

Stellar work, honeycomb.

Paint, pull, splatter. Art buries bone.