Cure
by Maisie Williams
If you wait a year– they told him,
but he couldn’t– and the gun–
One more year– they said, this research–
His wife dragged him down to Texas,
but it wasn’t ready. They needed a year.
We’re testing now. This surgery–
but he couldn’t, so the gun–
and she took it away from him.
He was so thin. Like a girl.
Like a bag of sawdust.
Don’t you trust me? he said,
and he poured his shame into her,
the guilt and the duty,
and he was so thin, and he couldn’t–
and his bird chest with its deep hollows
rattling under the shirt with his breath–
and the shame, and don’t you trust–
and she put the gun back, threaded the bullets
like seed pearls inside, one by one.
Go to church, he said. I know you miss it.
Go to church. Talk. Go.
and the shame– and she left,
and the guilt– and the gun– and one by one
one more year, but he couldn’t.