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 | Anthony Adrian Pino The Compulsion to Kill Lions Slick, these guns. They're well-oiled too, and they click with a solid metallic ping when you slap a clip of rounds into a chamber or release a lock. They come in black, shiny cases smelling of factory oil, sweet, soporific and cold. Up there he sleeps, in the air, on the branch of a camphor tree one leg draping off the limb, loose like Spanish moss. His coat, the color of coastal mountains, sandstone, wheat in May, old leaves on the forest floor, desert in the early morning, dark and muted gold, a deer at the edge of a meadow, an old canoe baking in the waving reeds. He stirs, do we kill him now? He raises his head, do we kill him now? Coastal mountains do we kill him now? Sandstone do we kill him now? Wheat in May do we kill him now? Old leaves on the forest floor do we kill him now? Desert in the morning do we kill him now? Dark, muted gold do we kill him now? Deer in the meadow do we kill him now? Drying old canoe do we kill him now? Now.  |