In the dream, I was walking down the street
in the old neighborhood. Rowhouses of bricks,
narrow front yards lined with flat-topped boxwoods.
Then I saw the man with the gun. Face of rage.
I crouched low on asphalt as a bullet whipped by.
Whistle and crack. Inching towards death, I crawled
close enough to see his crooked teeth. I tried to speak of peace,
as if I could reach inside and shake his heart back to life.
But I couldn’t speak. I raised my phone to snap a pic.
His only words were: aim, click, aim, click, aim, click
–
Risa Denenberg lives on the Olympic Peninsula in Washington, where she works as a nurse practitioner. She is a co-founder and editor at Headmistress Press and curator at The Poetry Café. She has published six collections of poetry, most recently the full-length collection slight faith (MoonPath Press, 2018) and the chapbook Posthuman, finalist in the Floating Bridge 2020 chapbook competition.