Shimmer

Her dress falls off her shoulders
while she practices her harp
and I am outside getting shaky
on the balcony.

She asks me if the mailbox
had any money,
through the screen door
while the coyotes all
gather to exchange
their different gristle
at the dead end
down the alley.

I tell her no
and keep on rocking in my chair
while windows break so loud
the lights come on all over.
I try to trace the culprit’s
face among the pavement
but there are not enough stars
to light up what I’m looking for.

I am sure he has an empty eye
and a missing tooth
upfront which makes
his smile dark and incomplete
like memory.

She puts the strings away
and tells me all about
her brothers shooting
squirrels and birds
with BB guns, and how
they wouldn’t always die
after the first one.

Some probably never died at all
and are still out there with that metal
in their necks, now long a part of them.
Unable to achieve their own revenge,

or just not wanting to,
even if they could.