by Gabriela Siry
Once, my grandfather mistook his dog for a fox and shot him
from a distance, bold and blinded by nighttime
the way most rueful decisions are made.
When the dog was found in the morning
cradled in tall grass, stiff and wet from dew
they mistook him for a sign from God
and in the following week foxes ate twelve more hens
unhurried and assured.
Once, I mistook the red heat of the summer for love
the brush of June wind against a sweat-damp forehead
for a press of lips, cold from ice-cream
I wanted to live forever in this heat.
I wanted to curl around myself like smoke.
I wanted to devour the sun
and this too, I mistook for love
Once, at a party, you mistook my jacket for yours
and wore me on your back for weeks.
Maybe one day, just for a day,
we won't be making any mistakes.
So you will be the shotgun held steady and I,
the land which
missing the warmth of the day
eagerly soaks up fresh blood.
Gabriela is a 22 year old creative trying to make art as an attempt to understand the world.