Poetry

Reuters photo

By

Alejandro Escudé

You, Ian

There are many Ians in the world. But

you, Ian, bought a Glock 21. You visited

every room in the house of your brain,

clearing them as you continued, as you

were taught to do—Ian, you were two Ians.

The one that lived and breathed and the one

that died every second you had lived.

What fierce forces swirled in your mind?

Tornado wind-projectors of fantasies.

What themes must of hurled themselves

against the thin-walled cavities? Ian,

you chose to drive to the Borderline Bar

where young people tossed back shots

in cowboy boots. A Wednesday bubble,

some place to laugh, sing, and huddle.

How long does it take to load ten rounds?

One gets fast at it. One grows to crave

up-tapping the gun magazine into place.

Oh Ian, you left us loud yet without a trace,

your body found curled like a fetus

about the glass, reflections of the past.

Doors become crucial, or ways to climb out,

to those who are sprinting for their lives.

But for the ill, Ian, doors are just doors

affixed to the earth, moist, flaking doors,

unyielding doors. You knew that, Ian.

You’d tried to pull on the doors in life.

They never opened, they hadn’t splayed

like angel wings—oh love, oh sanity.

Alejandro Escudé

Alejandro Escudé’s first book of poems, My Earthbound Eye, was published in September 2013. He holds a master’s degree in creative writing from UC Davis and teaches English. Originally from Argentina, Alejandro lives in Los Angeles with his wife and two children.