When they rose one day, out of nowhere,
the world seethed. Forests burned
and planes fell out of the sky; cars stalled,
their tires glued to steaming roads.
Haze filled the air. Whoever survived
was forced into hiding, cowering at home
or under what shade they could find.
My husband unlocked his gun cabinet,
retrieved a favourite and went hunting,
despite my pleas. I told him that anybody
could have done it: they were elementary
targets since they would not dodge
even if they were shot at relentlessly.
If you go, you would burst into flames
under their glare: a pile of soot and me,
as your legacy. But no, here he is now,
feet on the table, beer in one hand,
remote control in the other, watching
replays of his triumph in the news.
 
I have a collection of my own too,
kept not in a custom cabinet
but in the vanity behind the mirror,
for my insomnia and fear of lunacy.
Like a hungry diner who over orders,
I pour out two pills, and swallow.
A sense of lightness spreads over me,
an arrow is released, the chambered
bullet is fired, a fist unclenches,
and I am a child's balloon rising slowly.
Where I go, he cannot follow.