A bullwhip—handle wrapped
with duct tape, the ends knotted
to halt the unweaving—
wrapped in a bandanna, a fillet knife,
buck blade, and a pair of brass knuckles—
of blood in the dents.
Every Friday, after work, he parked
the T-Bird underneath the shade.
I remember my toes
gripping the limbs
watching as he unwrapped the pistol,
cocked the hammer, squeezed the trigger,
loaded the shells.
I remember the wind
dusting up the hill-side, bending maple
and oak, trailer windows slamming
He liked the quiet of a ditch, the snap
of skull crushing into smaller snaps, the way
skin flays off the collar bone.