Maybe Not...

The revolver held six bullets.
The minister had claimed one
The thing that had once been her daughter two—
her hand shook.
Her husband had been easier,
one shot.
Had Nanna taken one, or two?
She couldn’t remember.
Mom, dad and granddad were coming now,
she could hear them at the door.
She tasted the metal and the oil,
the bitter tang of gunpowder.
Was there a shot left?
Maybe...

Ω

Editor’s Corner

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