This Isn't Going to End Well
but you knew that already.
There was always that small kernel of fate
waiting for its skin to split, its flesh
to unfold and flower, a red
hibiscus blooming from your chest.
Some tangled gene left a key-shaped imprint
in your palm. It's why you're drawn--
as if driving home after an exhausting trip,
homesick--to an airtight garage.
You've known this all along.
Always, under the laughter over
hopscotch or whiskey,
there was a baby bullet gestating
in the soft part of your brain
waiting to be born.
If you have any comments on this poem, Rose Poto would be pleased to hear from you.