Not On Yr Life

Ryan Collins

What doves are allowed to spill
out of yr head divot the gunmetal
sky. Flown out of the right hemisphere
of yr brain, the pressure replaced
by a permanent half-dollar sized cold
spot fused into yr skull. Left bled,
left to die. Alive, but not quite even.
Not totally broken in halves. Shipped
home half in a gunny sack, doubled up,
drawn & quartered. Dressed down.
Blued to a loud, limping bruise. A cold
spot on almost two feet. If the right
one don’t get you, the left will collapse
yr resolve in secret, will graft its name
to the back of yr head. Zipper scars
you can’t keep yrself from pulling open.