By W. Vandoren Wheeler
At the scene of the shooting
I pinched my white gloves on.
Let me see your hands.
I picked up the officer’s pistol,
the wallet the officer thought
was a pistol, picked up the bullet
Let me see your hands
shells, the blood
drops, set each prop
in a body bag I sawed
in half, opened,
Let me see
closed.
Up to my elbows
into the black
Let me see
bag’s opening
to pull out a
your goddamn
dove, dead,
hands
untamed, its wings
hands
wild in my chest.
W. Vandoren Wheeler was born in Las Cruces, New Mexico. He has published poems in publications such as H_NGM_N, Forklift, Ohio, Conduit, and ratemyprofessor.com. His book The Accidentalist won the Dorothy Brunsman Poetry Prize and was published by Bear Star Press. He teaches in Portland, Oregon, and is finishing a manuscript called Lonely & Co.