by Bob Bires
He had tried before, couldn’t
do it in an Elko motel, so took
a bus to Philly, shamefully alive.
He lived with his mother, stayed
in his room, even to eat, then threw
most of it up into paper bags he’d
hide under the bed. One morning,
he left early in his Datsun, driving
north, far into Michigan. In a forest
on a farm, he parked among white
pines. At first, he fired experimentally
into the bark a few times to quell
his fear of guns. Then he did it.
How he chose there no one knows.
Hemingway perhaps the reason.
About the Author
Robert Bires writes in Chattanooga, Tennessee. He is a graduate of the University of New Hampshire MFA Writing Program, and has published poems and stories in The Penn Review, Ghost City Review, 101 Words, Happy, and Chug Unbound, among other journals. A guitarist and vocalist in a local rock band, The Intoverts, he also cans killer jam from the fig tree in his yard.