she digs up
the handgun she buried
under the fig-bloomed sycamore,
blows the skylark
straight
off the fence post.
a few seconds, she
thinks,
a few seconds
and it’s over.

she holds a lighter up
to the car’s gas tank,
flick, flick.
mom runs out of the house
screaming, yanking
at the hood of her daughter’s sweatshirt
while a neighbor calls 911.

now the girl sits
in a bare white room,
hair undone in a frizzy bundle,
but she’s OK
so the experts say
fly home,
fly home little half-winged bird.

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