Fireside Tequila Chat

by Richard L. Matta

A shot for me, a shot for you to feed your shooting flame.
And here, your chance, crosscut shredder ribbons from these empties.

The questions I never asked and the ones you never answered.
They told me the ashes in urns are human but maybe not just yours. Scrapings

off the furnace bottom. A barn owl appears over the rocks along the Bay. Ghost-
face and silent, hangs there as if strung up by a ribbon of cloud. A moonlit

noose. Like your words strangled by dementia, as I gather these answering ashes.