Chekov

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.