Shooting Gallery, a poem by Abhinav Aradhi Warning: violence in poem may be triggering

 

Shooting Gallery

Step out of the car, sir.

I’m afraid I can’t, officer, I’m all tied up now.

I won’t ask again, sir.

It’s that bitch at home’s fault, I swear!

 

There’s a house with wide open eyes,

With a righteous woman peering out it,

Straight into an erratic car,

Where she spies a man and a woman high off her rocks.

 

Suddenly, like a mass awakening,

All the house's eyes open up,

As though their dormancy had expired

Upon the prospect of scandal.

 

Oh, what a scene!

The big man from the perfect house,

He’s gone and done in his wife!

You hear that? He’s killed his wife!

 

What a whore of a woman!

She was always so kind when I saw her at church…

Women are meant to wear stagnant dresses,

That barely splash off their knees, like pathetic streams.

 

Father throws himself on his knees,

And raises his hands high above him,

In an unerring prayer

To a God who he has claimed to worship.

 

Praise the Lord, and you shall be forgiven.

That’s what I always say, officer.

Makes you want to burn yourself alive, huh?

Really makes you want to believe in it all.

 

There’s about a million guns pointed at him,
And he’s just religiously dancing,

In caterwauling heels that scrape the concrete,

And in a cascading dress that drenches the night.

 

She’s a dancer at the club,

And I know because I used to go and watch her,

Like a little cowardly chameleon in a rainbow room,

Or like a little drop of clarity in a swamp.

 

Sir, please stop moving,

Or we’re going to have to shoot.

Their guns are rounded like cruel mouths in the night,

Of some malevolent force out for murder.

 

I’ll take the car in tomorrow, honey.

Officers, would you give us a minute?

 

There’s a minute’s pause,

Then a million guns discharge,

And suddenly Father can’t speak.

He’s got a bullet in his throat, you see.

 

He’s got a bullet in his throat and he can’t quite speak.