Luke Johnson

Gin with quail eggs
butter and salted biscuit
made daddy want
to touch my hand
and take me in the canyon      
to shoot skeet
and slur at fattened geese.
Made him want
to wash his feet in the river        
and wade
until his body'd lift    
drag downstream
and snag storm debris.
Once, plucking feathers
and dripping a dead bird dry,
he made me
put my hand inside
and pull the heart
place it under my tongue.
It snapped and quivered
dissolved in spit        
withered
and the winds laid down.
The canyon suddenly quiet.