The dog is snoring beside me,
and as I try to climb the wall of sleep
I think of the woman in the poster
beside my bed who is making a gun
with her index fingers and thumbs,
pointing directly at the cameraman,
or in this case, me.

It’s never made me unsettled before,
but somehow I don’t feel safe tonight.
Every time I close my eyes,
I imagine her stepping through the poster
one foot at a time, the gun
still steadily aimed,
and then ambling across the room to my bedside
where her sandy-haired head
falls down on me, maintaining
her perfect pout (all cheekbone and lower lip).

It’s not much better when I open my eyes:
flashes of lightning come through
my window and illuminate her face;
the thunder rolls like a boulder behind
its electric brother and forces me to think
she’s fired her gun;
and the rain creeping down the window
reflects on her face, making her look
like she’s weeping—
sorry to have to shoot me at some point
with the small bullet that’s cusped
between the groove of her joined fingers.

Maybe it was a silly gesture
she happened to be doing at the time
the picture was taken,
but it’s as if she’s lived her entire existence,
even before the poster was printed,
waiting for me to enter that narrow
line of fire that would put my heart
in the mercy of her finger gun.

Then again, maybe she’s already shot me—
maybe that’s what hit me this morning
when I stood beside her and raised my arms
to put on a shirt,
feeling a little dead inside:
the same feeling I get when I see
a beautiful woman walking
in the opposite direction
in this vast world of ours.

Maybe I’m already dead.