CHILDHOOD GOES KALEIDOSCOPE, KALEIDOSCOPE, KALEIDOSCOPE, GUN

AMORAK HUEY

We keep waiting to wake up & know what we’re doing;we’ve learned to be gratefulfor any colored shard of glass not shaped like a bullet. We are driving in a blizzard (not a metaphor,we could die, I have a lot of responsibilityhere) & our daughter is telling us a ghost story, we’re listeningfor any clues to the riddlethat is her mind at 15—her life has ceased to revolvearound us. There are so manybullets, we’ve learnednot to take these small moments for granted. In this story, the fatherof the children of her Sims charactercame to visit, refused to leave.She built a tiny room, lured him in, deleted the door. Thirty game-days later, he died.The story takes a long time to tell,our son keeps interruptingto sing “We Got the Beat”& talk about his plansfor his new airsoft gun…

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The American Poetry Review (Digital) - 1 Issue, November/December 2018

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