Johann Sarna

Marquee Gun Range

I was trying to infer candy from the icicles.
I shouted obscenities at young families
in their down jackets. I kept asking
what blizzard we were on, if
they named them like hurricanes. Remember
being a child, a medallion,
when they were burning stacks
of bodies? That hasn’t stopped.
They told me not to dig wells
where my shadow looks sharpest.
Stop building forts, cease your tunnels. To clarify,
they were all aimed into one country:
my brother’s domain. The walls
were lined with doggies and stars.
A little light seemed necessary,
I made a crack. I ate
roti like my life depended on it.
I told everyone I was an authority
and that this explained the sack on my head.
I even offered questionnaires: some bumps
tug, which? These auroras, do they hurt?
Many of us were busy with the world
our want made, acquiring
the right scales—major, mixolydian,
lionfish, judgment day.
Now when the road dips and the sky
seems big, when there’s music,
it’s with this exactitude of blood, the vibrato
of semi-expired dreams. The longing
is not over said the man, last night,
as they pulled him out of the trash compactor.
Today the abscess indicates leukemia.
What if all we do is enlarge like
an epilogue of smoke? I want you to know
there was a time I could take the cold.
I haven’t said I’m through.