Robert Okaji

Door frames contract. The antique table thrusts its sharp corner
into my thigh when I pass. I can’t remember how we won the
war, or if the tunnel branched under the glare of that single red
eye. My navy records claim marksmanship, and I bleed freely. I
am not a killer by nature, which is no excuse. My last victim was
an innocent prickly pear cactus. I shot it without provocation,
under the watchful Texas sun. Compelled to confess my crimes,
I admit confusion, a desire to please. And remorse. So much
remorse. One time I crawled and squeezed through that worm
belly, praying that I’d somehow emerge alive. Now I stumble
through a house, gathering more bruises, collecting forgotten
memories. I do not fit this space.