Emcore

I have been shot.

Her voice deliberate
calm, she tests the weight
of it in her mouth.

Again she says
the same words
to make them true
or to catch them in their own lie,
which one isn’t clear
and
her eyes, the
wide, wild, veiled
calm of them
already far from
this blood these sirens
though they meet mine
are no help.

I have been shot
and I’m reminded of my
first taste of
umeboshi
how it was both an
instant, visceral reaction and
a slow intellectual puzzle:

These neurons speak in nothing
but syllables and punctuation
while these try to make
up out of down
right themselves
find some orientation now
that all the landmarks have
exploded.

Making sense.
Just sensing.

Grasping for some why and how
inside the pain and the echo
of shots.

Grasping the sheet
my arm
herself
white-knuckling through it
not even yet ready for tears
though surely those will come.

I have been shot.

It isn’t a question
but I give the only answer I have:

Yes

and I touch her hair
then let her do her work.