gunpowder

I learned of hollow.
Point bullets from a Christmas.
Present my childhood.
Home had no guns.
Dad kept swords crossed on the walls.
Tomes with giant-texted RAPEs.
Down their spines I tipped.
A plant off.
The table just. Now singing.
A pervasive scent of mint.
And urine soil darkening my nails.
I thought treason had to do.
With eggs I thought a centerfold.
Was a cushion my coworker pining for a guy.
He had all the guns Keanu uses in John Wick 3.
Unsubscribe from the emails. Subject.
Line. “GUNDAY BRUNCH.” That.
Fandom breeds. A kind. Of currency
everything is. A war.
Crime. Except

seared steak

my mother attended seminary, examined
the biblical role of the animal that she was
a carnivore, before she would place us
in front of chicken-processing docs
                             trying to convert something
my sister always has
                             a steak in the fridge I used
                             to make her pickle & butter on white
                             bread those long hours passing youth
with a minor earthquake around the house one time
with my spoon quivering at a bowl’s edge

A decade I’ve not eaten meat
one bite passed the suffering
                              every living thing I starved
myself for five days in indecision finally
a concession: to gnash teeth against plant matter
                              exclusively, fish flesh
                              only (sometimes in the bath I revert)
with the sea living in my name
                             I owe it something, no?
In August, the night bugs chorused for two
minutes while the sun yearned opposite
an eclipse: of my mother, an ordained friend asked:
                             what does she think then of dominion?

Meredith MacLeod Davidson is a poet and writer from Virginia, currently based in Scotland, where she earned an MLitt in Creative Writing from the University of Glasgow. Meredith’s poetry is published in The London Magazine, Cream City Review, Propel Magazine, Gutter, and elsewhere.