wildscape. literary journal

When I Text My Mother Gun
by Joshua Lillie

my phone corrects the n to an m, as in: 
“Is my Nintendo in the attic or in the basement 
with grandpa’s gums?”

I google murder, Tennessee and I’m redirected 
to an AI overview bullet-pointing what not to do
beneath my breath.

Suicide swipes a breeze but, pluralized, the outcome 
changes to divides, as in: “among survivors of suicide, 
nearly all reported regret the moment 
they awoke. Worldwide there are roughly 800,000 divides 
per year.”

Mass shootings become mass shoutings:
“There have been more mass shoutings this year 
than calendar days so far.”

Abortion becomes abolition: “Scars from clothes-hangers
heal like claw marks on the scalps of children who escaped 
back-alley abolitions.”

Last year’s documentary on melting ice caps is eclipsed
by the one on this year’s flooding, so I’ll skip 
the winter premieres and wait for new summer tides 
to reach my door. I’ll refresh the doppler radar
and hope the cyclone spares my cow.

The cracks in the guest rooms of my heart heal quicker
each time I memorize the names of schools 
and churches and small towns gummed down and gutted
by one more mass-mutterer draped in echoes and bright 

red flags. The weather calls for shelter 
behind barricades so solid no amount of cheesecake 
could distract us from this wind. My mother marks 

herself safe and chalks another prayer up 
to relief. She says she recalls exactly when
the urge to teach me fell behind
the walls she built to keep me shielded, like it was 
today or yesterday.

about the author // Joshua Lillie