POWDER KEG

Soup's on.

A sliver of silver cuts across the yard. Divides the drive.

The blood moon is hunting.

I am six years old. My first dream, I recollect. The windowpane between me and it.

A skeleton advances. Sauntering. Black boots. A tattered revolutionary war uniform hangs from his bones. Clickety-clack. His joints, his neck, his back. Sockets and ribs. Jaw. A musket slung. Sabre glistening. Attack.

He meets me twitching teeth to the eye. Points and beckons. Taunts.

Come out, he mouths. I’ll have you for my supper.

I am a veteran even at my tender age. I push the screen door open. The flies escape.

The fight is in here, I thunder. Welcome.

My powder is dry.

My smile is wicked. Lit.

I fed his charred femur to my dogs.

The rest made for strong broth.