Ricochet

Tiptoeing through the shards of yesterday,

cadences trapped in my throat, aching to escape.

A feud beneath the huntsman's moon, mashed in the marrow,

growing outward as the yearning gut in my body expanded in quietness.

My tongue, sometimes a gun,

on better days, a double-edged sword,

whetted by a world that never learned

to whisper.

Do uncut truths hold the same weight
as a saint's vowels?

I was taught not to make a sound

when a wild slaughter grew loud.

Yet, within the storm, a voice lingers,

my phantom limb remembers

no longer to gatekeep a cartridge,

fired, and could have been echoes of defense.

Only now do I see an amputee.

Funny how I called it me.