Firecrackers by Christian Bell

1 The last time I shouted at my parents, they made me leave.  Mom cried.  Dad pushed me out the door. Their dog growled at me. 2 The last time I visited the coffee shop it was a gas station.  I was twenty.  My friend, alive.  Days young, air sweet like candy. 3 The last time the wind blew I hopped on a leaf and soared.  Carefree, eyes closed, unconcerned where I’d land, what new home was mine. 4 The last time someone pointed a gun at me I laughed.  Do us all a favor, jackass, and fire.  Those days I was explosives, cyanide. 5 The last time I drank too much the following words applied: vodka, prank, panties, vomit, Doberman, theft, pizza, tears, grammar, nudity, supine, firecrackers, sprint, warthog. 6 The last time, you said, an unfinished thought.  Brain misfire, it happens.  You stood, quizzical, eyes searching for the rest.  In the kitchen, popcorn burned. 7 The last time I pointed a gun at someone it was empty.  Old girlfriend.  We were stoned. To her, pointing meant shooting.  We both cried. 8 The last time I jumped off a building I bounced.  Sixteen stories.  People ask, why.  I say, I knew I’d bounce.  Hopeless liar.  Elastic posterior. 9 The last time I talked to my dead friend it snowed.  We drank wine, watched stupid movies, made snowballs.  Let’s get together soon.  We parted. 10 The last time.  Here’s where I put my foot down.  That’s it.  I’ve become my parents.  No more.  I’ll remind you of past trespasses.  Explode.

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