Books
Poetry/Lyrics
Essays
Catching The Bullet
I can feel his thumbs in my mouth,
pushing for cracks of pain
in the brittle china.
My eyes closed in terror's meditation:
I picture a feather on a lake of black water
as I pause life's breath,
time pincered between steel and tooth.
Eight.
Seven.
Six.
Five.
There is a snap of sound.
An iron fist smacks the bullet.
Four.
Three.
We are all falling,
a piano wire loose
around our fleshy throats.
The trick is to stop time.
Two missing.
I picture a feather on a lake.
One tear-drop leaks, like love
from a night daisy accidentally awake.
I remember summer;
the stroke of sun's radiation
between school's horror
and my father's practice.
One.
I clench with certain cruelty
to vice a ball of lead once mobile and alive.
One.
The chalk cliffs of my smile crack
and flake to mallow's agony.
Two missing.
He is dead now, but
I exhibit the echo of his memory with this strange grin,
showing the silver to the blinding light,
as I count.
|
