Was it God who fell
that evening,
God who travelled
in the form of a bullet
through atom and membrane,
splitting wide the white scalp
of earth—no, not splitting,
resting, instead, above
my head like a halo
before the driving reins
went slack.
Moments of impact:
hay pierced and lifted
by metal tines,
a rough apron tossed
aside like a silk gown
after a night of dancing,
and there, in the distance,
the lake where I swam
each summer, drifting
through water pale
as winter skin.
Down the road, the farmer
who, in cleaning his gun,
centered tip and rod
and steadied a hand
against the barrel, surprised
as anyone when the bullet
left the muzzle—
was it God who put
the ice in my bones,
God who turned the horse’s
nose towards home.
lives in Washington state, writes poetry, and formerly served as an editor for Words Without Borders.
