the twist
BY IAN BURNETTE
i remember it
like a bullet
remembers the bone.
she was only fifteen
and i a year older
but we wanted it
more than anything.
i remember afterwards
her body heaving
like a racehorse
on the floor
of the empty house
next door to mine
as an unwelcome terror
let itself in
like a six year old
understanding space
for the first time or
like the alleyway robbery
of a pear-cut gem
i’d carried around
for years, not knowing
what a diamond was
or that it was there
all along
deep in the left pocket
of my favorite coat,
though sometimes i remember
myself double, holding
both the stone and the gun.
