Rebecca Lehmann grew up on Wisconsin's Door Peninsula, and has since lived in Iowa and Florida. Her poems have been published, or are forthcoming, in Tin House, Denver Quarterly, The Iowa Review, Hayden's Ferry Review, Indiana Review and other journals, and she has been an Artist in Residence at the Millay Colony for the Arts. She is a PhD Candidate in English/Creative Writing at Florida State University.
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A Gun In The First Act
Remember anger, barking fists. My knuckle rips open,
and we’re nothing but an accident. The hard summer wind
holds itself back with strings. What is a leaf bug?
Before we can find one you drop a beer bottle;
it slurs across the gravel. We blame the night sky
for not arriving fast enough, and with neon stars.
I was born in this puny city’s tallest building. Gravity,
like rough forceps, sucked my fat head into the air.
The sky’s a shiner. It moans. Short list: your heart, a handful
of muscle relaxants. We might be whale song, and not
even know it; that’s why I wear rings. One morning I wake up
and find a Derringer, politely pearled, in the front yard.
Isn’t this the mystery you were looking for? Dear Reader,
If I betray you, don’t shoot me in the mouth.