after Chekov dotted his last i
he told his sister with glee
the he finally wrote a play
where not a single gun went off.

when i heard this, i thought
that when i breathe my last me
will love not shoot these nounsandverbs
though a Muse’s ribs?

will not a single cannon
filled with black lust powder
sizzle and burn, crack and boom
with pontificating fucking?

will the taught bow string
of this poet’s pen shoot the bull’s eye
painted on the trunks of oak trees
by God’s hand?

and what of God? will He
be bleeding from my orator’s spear
that whistled through the air
up to hostile Heaven?

will my mother sit split
by her son’s incoherent blows
as solemn deepening adjectives
that raise her up?; knock her down?

will my darling niece fall asleep
to the sound of my clanking daggers
as i sing her praises
while she inhales and utters?

when Chekov beat the gun
he died;
when i lose my cannon
i sleep.

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