Lisa A. Flowers
Shot in the back of the head that Fourth of July
Your memories only went speeding back, so many miles
In wagon trains
Before they reached the sea
A coast on which you stood,
Facing the Atlantic,
Stars and stripes
Rapidly cycling backwards into a history of cameras
Devolving from digital to Instamatic to daguerreotype
Gradually, and in split seconds
The disappearing bathing suit of a bombshell on a pen
Sucked back into her body
The subsequent 1000 odd color photos of the rest of your
Drained like swimming pools.
You are dead now,
And no longer British.
The extra U in your spelling
Goes clattering down the cold marble passages of your
Throat, like a horseshoe
And comes to rest
At the bottom of an empty swimming pool.