"In Nomine Patri" by Sun

Wind billowed, blustered, buffeted the bluff, but the banner doesn’t flutter much. I mark these words, ostentatious as the chrysanthemum on that fool’s lap, in his other hand as he writes—a sweet, gussied up love letter, no doubt. She’s just gonna leave ya, kid. Stupid fucking name for a flower, anyways. Hope it blows away. Ha. In black water below, some pelagic bird snares a herring; a garand bolt bites a thumb. Second weapon safety rule, never point your weapon… etcetera etcetera. Rain pelts the car window, all the familiar friends come to bid farewell, plasters the lover-boy’s hair. One, tick-tick, two, tick-tick… a cadence kind to hear; the rifle twists around. Don’t brace, slow and easy, squeeze it evenly. Let it surprise you. Finally. Time to drop pack, buddy. A raven caws somewhere, and jerry’s shell howls with the wind, laughing at him as it flies by, tipping its feldkappe. Not a nice day to go, but gneiss rock below, and a sardonyx pendant under the shirt makes a good enough dog tag. A sardonic comment: no one will come looking. No man left behind— except for a list of possible exceptions. Maybe he could’ve been a geologist, or a poet— sorry pal, we have no openings for point men. Loverboy stands up, letter and flower tucked tight in the bench, walks right to the edge, looks for his green blinking light. Better stop procrastinating: hurry up and wait’s gotta end sometime, and we wouldn’t want to spook the ol’ boy off the ledge. Easy does it, slow is smooth, and smooth is fast—a cold metallic tickle under the chin. Loverboy turns round. He looks like Walter, or Chris, or Johnny, whiter than ash and deader than dirt, water wetting his skin. He marks patris, filli, et spiritus sancti, a final farewell before sin. A car door opens, a raven crows, and an old dog yells into the wind.

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