I don’t have a gun, but I have a dozen eggs, tidy in their two-rowed carton, and I have a jar of jam. I have carrots that smell of dirty earth, like a cemetery in November, and eggs whose tiny skulls crack when I throw them, whose yolk brains leak and clump. I have a jar of jam that doesn’t go down easy but I fire until the glass shatters in a fury of red, a murder of jam, and I know someone will have to clean this up, but I’m so very tired, I wish I had a gun.
