Loaded (A Sestina)
I continue to be inspired to write in sestinas. I really love the discipline of the form. This one took me HOURS and I do mean HOURS to write. I love writing in the confines and discipline of the form of a sestina. It forces me to see things differently, to rethink how I write, to explore new rhythms, phrasing, and seeing, to carve and craft, work and tool. I understand that most people reading this could give a rat's ass about a sestina yet alone poetry. But I give a rat's ass. I love poetry. I love sitting down and putting myself to task to craft something as difficult as a sestina. Believe it or not, it is the most influential form in my writing, even in my prose. The way I use the "repetition with a difference" style of writing is very much a result of the years I studied poetry. Poetry is the one thing in my life that I have truly studied, even if it is the one kind of writing that is most under-appreciated. Truth of the matter is that poetry -- writing it, reading it, thinking about it -- makes me very happy. That's why I wrote another freaking sestina. And, believe it or not, I have two more up my sleeve. These are the days in which I do that which makes me happiest. This makes me happy. So here it is.
LOADED (a sestina)
Kim Nicolini
We kick up rocks like kids as we carry our bags
into the wash at twilight. Our hearts
loaded with ammunition and love. We string the center
of two trees together with cheap twine. Loaded
guns raised to our chests, we shoot
bullets through history held by clothespins. The trigger
under my finger, I fire at the Queen of Spades, her face a trigger
for everything I hold inside -- my mother’s face, pill bottles shoved in bags.
You go for the Ace of Spades until the spade is a ragged hole. You shoot
that card as if you could blow away bad luck. We stitch our hearts
together with bullets. An exorcism performed with loaded
guns and loaded cards. The Jack of Clubs’s eye is blown out. The center
of the Queen is missing, her chest a messy hole the shape of a cross. The center
of our world is this dry river bed in Mammoth. Your eyes trigger
a double reflection - the full moon and my face. The evening sky is loaded
with exploding cards. They fall to the dirt like dead birds we put in bags.
I punch a hole straight through the red belly of the Ace of Hearts.
An open wound. We take aim and shoot
our way through car crashes in Detroit, shoot
shot glasses in Vegas. Men’s rooms, barstools, the spinal ward, and the gutter. The center
of the two trees is pulled taught with twine. It could snap any minute. Our hearts
patched together with poker cards and kisses, bullets and tears, the trigger
and the fingers that pull it. Plastic bags
hold empty shells and broken clothespins. We are loaded
with the weight of our lives, the history of being loaded.
Guns discharge tears in ten round shots. We shoot
until our fingers turn black. One round for the bags
under our eyes from a lifetime of sleepless nights. One for the center
that won’t hold until we pull the trigger
and let gunfire pave the way inside our hearts.
We assassinate a lifetime of bad memories in a Royal Flush. Hearts,
Spades, Clubs and Diamonds. They unravel in a ritual loaded
with things that can’t be written so we say them with the trigger.
Twilight comes down in a heavy blue blanket. I shoot
you a smile so big it punctures a hole right through the center
of the wall around us. Somewhere in Mammoth garbage bags
hang from trees like transparent hearts. The trigger comes
up empty now. Bags are loaded with dirt and cards. Nothing is
left to shoot. We follow the center of the road and disappear.
LOADED (a sestina)
Kim Nicolini
We kick up rocks like kids as we carry our bags
into the wash at twilight. Our hearts
loaded with ammunition and love. We string the center
of two trees together with cheap twine. Loaded
guns raised to our chests, we shoot
bullets through history held by clothespins. The trigger
under my finger, I fire at the Queen of Spades, her face a trigger
for everything I hold inside -- my mother’s face, pill bottles shoved in bags.
You go for the Ace of Spades until the spade is a ragged hole. You shoot
that card as if you could blow away bad luck. We stitch our hearts
together with bullets. An exorcism performed with loaded
guns and loaded cards. The Jack of Clubs’s eye is blown out. The center
of the Queen is missing, her chest a messy hole the shape of a cross. The center
of our world is this dry river bed in Mammoth. Your eyes trigger
a double reflection - the full moon and my face. The evening sky is loaded
with exploding cards. They fall to the dirt like dead birds we put in bags.
I punch a hole straight through the red belly of the Ace of Hearts.
An open wound. We take aim and shoot
our way through car crashes in Detroit, shoot
shot glasses in Vegas. Men’s rooms, barstools, the spinal ward, and the gutter. The center
of the two trees is pulled taught with twine. It could snap any minute. Our hearts
patched together with poker cards and kisses, bullets and tears, the trigger
and the fingers that pull it. Plastic bags
hold empty shells and broken clothespins. We are loaded
with the weight of our lives, the history of being loaded.
Guns discharge tears in ten round shots. We shoot
until our fingers turn black. One round for the bags
under our eyes from a lifetime of sleepless nights. One for the center
that won’t hold until we pull the trigger
and let gunfire pave the way inside our hearts.
We assassinate a lifetime of bad memories in a Royal Flush. Hearts,
Spades, Clubs and Diamonds. They unravel in a ritual loaded
with things that can’t be written so we say them with the trigger.
Twilight comes down in a heavy blue blanket. I shoot
you a smile so big it punctures a hole right through the center
of the wall around us. Somewhere in Mammoth garbage bags
hang from trees like transparent hearts. The trigger comes
up empty now. Bags are loaded with dirt and cards. Nothing is
left to shoot. We follow the center of the road and disappear.