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His Gun


Grateful to the child who shot me with a banana, Jo Bell's 52 Poetry Book and Ink, Sweat and Tears for publishing my poem in December 2018...

HIS GUN

He shoots.
She is falling,
staggering,
clutching herself.
Her hip seems to disappear,
she stumbles, hits the floor, stills.
He watches
so silent he stops the air from moving.
Her closed eyes flicker to find him.
He searches his words.
They both stare at it hanging from his limp hand.
He meets her gaze, speaks:
It’s just a banana, he tells her.

You can listen to 'His Gun' here 

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