Out of the Chamber

Bullets in your soup, cracking teeth. Bullets littered
along interstates, swimming pools, shoulders. Bullets eating

all your air. Glossy and slim-coppered, bullets
skirting your legs in the office park. Stacking us

one by one, shelled, spent. Sparkling in playgrounds,
magpies making new games: catch as catch can.

Crimson-ended. Bullets teaching geography,
rattling like pins in the map. Here is this one

and then the next one and then another before
we can bury the last one. Here is a church choir

with notes punctuated by bullets. Here a parking lot,
a snowy afternoon, where there is space

between flakes for bullets. Here is your hand
in the popcorn finding bullets. Here is your last bouquet,

your knock-knock. Bullets finding homes nestled
in our chambered hearts, clinging to tissue

that will not forgive. At the gas station, bullets wait
to end where your life should be

 
 

Rebecca Connors’ poems can be found in burntdistrict, Menacing Hedge, and Tinderbox Poetry Journal, among others. After living in multiple cities, she is happily settled with her family in Boston, where she writes poetry, hangs out with ghosts, and fights for public education. Follow her on Twitter @aprilist or visit her site at aprilist.com.