Your feet should be shoulder width apart.
Montmartre, 1887: windmills, vegetable gardens, farmers tilling their undersized plots.
And, then, Theo: sans bicycle, sans thought, hand raised as if attempting to halt oncoming traffic.
Blade your body.
One day I noticed with curiosity that the universe had commenced vibrating with color.
Theo stunned.
Stand with a slight lean forward.
Shimmering. Mosaic.
Asking: Can’t we talk about this?
Your dominant elbow nearly straight.
The name of my brother and sister-in-law’s new baby: Vincent.
Can’t we—
Aim by viewing with your dominant eye.
After me, you see.
The fourth and fifth in the region of his heart.
You’re here. You’re nowhere else. After his poor painter brother.
Theo stumbling a single step back, looking down at the injuries developing on him, at a loss for how to proceed.
This second is everywhere.
And so I close my eyes and visit the sea.
Onlookers fetching up in mid-step, crying out, dodging down side streets, ducking behind cars.
Aim for the center mass.
Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer: a red fishing boat, a green, a blue, another blue rocking down the taupe beach.
Like an American science-fiction movie from the Fifties, a witness later reported.
Believe in me.
I make no apologies for my brushstrokes.
Theo rotating in place with deliberation.
Squeeze the trigger with constant pressure.
Like a lightning strike: my pen in my sketchbook.
They out-honeymooning the honeymooners several terraces over.
Time your firing with your breathing.
After his poor painter brother. Imagine. After me.
The room hollowing with her voice that wasn’t there.
Inhale.
Blue-veinish baby skin.
Theo trundling across the honking road among halting traffic.
Exhale.
Baby fragrance: the faint parmesany whiff of vomit.
The guy with the gun dogging him. Leisurely.
Discharge a round.
The bar at the Caf Alcazar.
And after the coffee and platter of melon slices, grapes, and strawberries at the umbrellaed table, down to the beach for a swim.
Discharge a round.
I remember.
Later, a witness reported that it appeared as if Theo were trying to shoo away flies from his wild blond head.
Make sure to retake aim after each shot, for the recoil will have offset your alignment.
My father is now part of my audience. He holds a naked doll in each hand. They take turns in girlish versions of his voice naming the varieties of my sonnish failures.
Another that he seemed to be addressing the street beneath his feet as he progressed from one side to the other, repeating, almost under his breath—
Take your time.
The bar at the Cafe Alcazar never closed.
— don’t do this—
Take your—
Shortly after ten p.m., the place started magneting those without cash for lodging. They ordered cheap drinks, rested their heads on folded arms, and wafted into sleeplessness.
No one interceding.
A falcon hanging over desert scrub.
For Monsieur Vincent, who remained awake three nights in a row to paint the bar in order to pay an outstanding bill from its proprietor, the café became a harsh, lopsided, shuddering contrast of reds, greens, and loneliness.
No one at all.
Discharge a round.
After his poor painter brother’s dead little brother, too: my other Vincent.
Gezelligheid.
Living fully these minutes that have finally been given you.
Raising my head above the water, looking around briefly, and sinking back under again.
Mercy.
A holy gift.
Open your mouth, Doctor Gachet requesting near my offended left ear.
Better him than me, the others apparently thinking. Better them than us.
You hope these minutes will last forever.
Swallow, he says, spooning me a viscous elixir.
Attaining the far bike lane, Theo lowers himself daintily to the cinnabar asphalt and sits with his legs veed open before him.
After the gun goes off, continue pulling the trigger until it stops, then release and prepare for the next round.
Monsieur Vincent humping his shoulders and ghouling his face in disgust.
Raggedy Theo.
Discharge a round.
Remember: in celebration, in hope, I painted for baby Vincent the branches of an almond tree in cream blossom against a cerulean sky.
Not yet.
This improves accuracy and reduces shot-to-shot variation, just as follow-through does for, say, a golfer or a tennis player.
Kissing little Vincent’s soft baby pate.
Behind Theo a shop selling washing machines.
Inhale.
Your rotten teeth screeching at the harsh sweetness.
When he raises his palm again—
Discharge a round.
And, in the evening, how the sea became a limitless apricot glistering.
— the sixth in his left shoulder.
A holy gift.
I sat on the beach, Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer at my back, trying very hard to see.
A young woman screaming.
You become aware of a young woman in a black scarf screaming at you six steps to your right.
A brief dream: I reach for an orange.