As in swords.

 

As in strength

           and weakness.
 

As in marriage.

As in anything

            silver-tipped.
 

As in Judas.

 

As in the second

            amendment.

As in the opposite of a gun

            is wherever you point it.

As in sitting on the stand

            as a young man with my father,

                        canvas camouflage vests pulled

                                    tight around our chests, the cold

                                                November air closing in around

                                                            us, when a sixteen-point buck

                                                                        came into view, when I pulled

                                                                                    the trigger slow and steady like he

                                                                                                showed me, and how the buck fell.

As in the field of memory.

As in burying our parents

            every generation.

As in peonies, fertility,

            infidelity.

As in knowing

            some men don’t get to grow old.

As in the way Daunte Wright’s name tastes like steel.

As in a white-picket fence

           reclaimed by ivy.

As in pinky promises

            we know won’t be kept.

As in Congress.

As in the biggest cherry tree

            you’ve ever seen, perfect ruby

                        hearts smushed underfoot,

                                    pits sticking in the grooves

                                                of a birdwatcher’s boots.

As in the possibility of God.

As in peeling an orange,

            rind under your fingernails.

As in the Fourth of July sky

            exploding with fireworks.

As in long-stemmed roses.

As in saying a prayer

            over tonight’s glass of whiskey.

As in the stick

            & gold of honey.

As in burning a flag

            when it becomes too tattered to fly.

As in waking up hungry.

As in seeing the end

            for what it is, or

                        could be: the beginning.