The Inevitability of Bullets

It’s the guns.

I cannot stop thinking about the inevitability of bullets —
how they will leave us in pieces, in shadow, in splinters.

I cannot stop thinking about our bodies emptied upon impact
without blood or tissue or bone —
What will we leave behind?
Not our fears —
of snakes, or clowns, or quicksand.
Those are already gone, whispers of what we’ve lost;
a time when we were haunted by the irrational, rather than the inevitable.

I cannot stop thinking about how much I love you,
a love that is wedged between every word I utter
hanging in space, staying close, just in case
today is the day you are exploded.

I cannot stop urging you to take it all in, to hold it tight, to listen closely
as I point out every door, every exit, every bush
the better for hiding beneath.

I cannot.

I cannot. I cannot. I cannot.

I cannot hug you without my fingers feeling for where the holes will be —
fielding dreams of iron gates and wooden fences.
Building walls to protect us.
There is not…