On Relationships

by Renae Andruse

Your words misfire like
a gun in an old western—
I can’t decide if I am

the one behind you, counting paces,
or the corseted hot shot
back at the saloon.
My mouth becomes the double swinging

doors. Come in and drink
but know you might find smoke
in the barrel of your sarcasm.

After our fight, I wonder if
this town could ever be

big enough for the two of us.