Page 17 - The Woven Tale Press Vol. IV #6

Anti-bullet #3
Without a throat,
I couldn’t swallow. Packing light,
I once spoke pickpockets,
Prison guards,
Uncle Nat in Murder Incorporated. But I couldn’t spell the mother Who dumped her baby
For bullets.
(After San Bernardino)
“I have been things worse than any I have seen,” Rosicrucians say.
But I have not been that mother Whose baby became cover,
A front for bullets.
I am an anti-bullet human. Emptiness where song Should be.
Something’s stuck, The letter n.
No no no.
The sound of an infant Pining. The
Sound of choking
On rage that
Smelled of flesh, Blood, metal blinding.
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