Ten-Gallon, a poem

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If I put on that hat

each town will pray for mercy.

I will catch their prayers with a fist of lead,

imprison them within the barbed walls 

of my hat, sealed to our realm.

Spilt ink will consume the sky, an opaque 

granite mist will smother the fields

and devour each crop as a futile feast.

Each tree will gain full consciousness, only to 

receive utility bills on the sixth of each month.

Mountains will deflate, recede into hollow vessels,

mossy tombs for the raw bones of shrieking mothers.

Your tap water will taste vaguely like sauerkraut. 

I will rise, supreme, uplifted by a typhoon 

stained crimson by the hearts of lambs,

infecting eternity with a spear of pestilence. 

My fleet of grotesque ghouls will

conquer each sphere, our festering maws quenched only by 

the blood of tarnished worlds. 

But don’t worry,

my hair looks alright today.

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Colby Wright is a recent graduate from the University of Puget Sound, with a major in English literature and a minor in History.