The Loaded Question

I’m not direct.

Not snub-nosed.

Not notched.

My mother called my features

delicate, curvy,

but they pitch me as a shot.

I understand. I’m abrupt,

that’s true, and there is a response,

I suppose. A blush, fresh fluster,

perhaps even a stammer.

Sometimes the eyes turn up and to the left.

Sometimes the pause is a little too long.

In that second, everyone knows. Or thinks

they know. Critics crowd,

croaking before the victim has fallen.

But he hasn’t. He doesn’t

stagger back clutching his chest and crumple.

If he does fall, it’s slow, like an old tree

hollowed by rot. Nothing topples.

In my dream, I stand by the roadside,

pointing, but no one follows.

I am a sign, weathered, paint chipping,

an arrow flashing, fading

in the predawn light.

Detour. Detour. Detour.