My grandad had a shotgun.
When my gran died
he went outside and shot the heavens.
Awful coffee and fatty bacon rashes. Morning
in the country crumbles like egg shells and ash.
You can taste earth in the air, in the water.
Do ghosts survive like mice in the undergrowth?
The fields rumbled and one pigeon tumbled.
Smashed right through the greenhouse.
A temple of tomato plants. A hostage
of sacrifices we burnt to nothing in particular.
Chants of witchdoctors got lost to the wind.
A cat came and pulled the dead bird out.
Grandad turned to me, said that’s how
they collected gran’s soul.
Last time I saw gran she smiled.
like Atlas when he discovered.
that all along it was orbit and gravity.
Submission Name: flowers and bones
