Ghost peach press

I once tried to find my heart
with a pair of scissors
and a tiny saw.

I failed but I still hear
the drum beat, that’s life
jolting me from another side.

I once held a weaponless man
that didn’t belong to me.
He was young, eager.

I opened the little door.
We never cross paths but memory
is an elephant, quiet on the ground.

Are all men mysterious?
If you think reading across eyes,
skin is easy, even tattooed—

think again, keep walking.
No one needs to know three shotguns
in your background are covered

with old gramophone boxes.
They hold their shape, Tennessee
rain pounds patterns we can hear.