she don’t care for country / in her tatters and rags
as the band plays the anthem / she whispers, “god hates flags”
The first arrow tears through the side of the bag near the top, leaving a split in the burlap. The second widens it to a gaping hole. I can see the first apple teetering when i let the third arrow go, catching the torn flap of the burlap and ripping it from the bag.
For a moment, everything seems frozen in time. Then the apples spill to the ground and I’m blown backwards into the air.
