Michael O’Neill wrote this poem.

Treating Women Like Used Books
By Michael O’Neill

Standing in the library, I stare at the writings
of dead men. Turning the pages of bullet

wounds and broken spines. The faded
words that speak of tall tales and love

lost. All the letters jump out from the
paper and parade in front of my shotgun

eyes, daring me to shoot. My mind jumbles
and spins like carbines repeatedly misfiring.

The only gun I hold is hidden behind the
reflection of my glasses. And when I try

to put you out of your misery I always
blink at the wrong time, as if I’m too

afraid to pull

the trigger.