when my father was younger, he
aimed his frustration at birds.
when a farm throws itself out wide,
the second between shot and thud
eats itself alive and is lost in the flush of cedar.
when my father was younger, he
had a grandmother whose rules bled right into him.
don’t walk on the grass if it isn’t yours, don’t let a woman walk nearest the street, don’t
shoot the northern cardinal.
my mother still thinks you became one
that when the last threads of your scent escaped out the window
they tied back together and flew
over a farm, untouchable.
your love remained a quiet, breathing creature
one that twists and dances and
lives
even as your absence serves proof of a voyage completed.
mikey harper is a seventeen-year-old transgender artist and aspiring journalist from houston, texas. he is a creative writing student with a focus in poetry and creative non-fiction, and is the founder/managing editor of BLUNT FORCE JOURNAL. he has been previously published in the augment review, paper crane journal, and twice through cathartic lit. when he isn’t reading or going to concerts, he’s learning a new song on bass or adding more CDs to his collection.