When you run yellow, I’ll be the eye
of your barrel, a kaleidoscope
to quench this winter’s blood. Remember
the deer you couldn’t call venison, the clay
pigeon you stitched sweetly then shot
again. You’ll be a roof come April. Auburn
draft evaders will brand their shadows into you
like the muddied boot print of east-
blown soot. The trigger
is an icicle, not a stone.
When, don’t tell me
Riley Ward is an undergraduate at Salisbury University. This is her first publication.