I’d like to be the bullet in the story of the hunter
who saves the heroine from a wolf. No authorship,
all instrument, aloft on the tailwind of someone else’s
moral clarity, released from my sense of direction, sent
headlong into the beast’s hot flesh. No bullet regrets its
trajectory. The terminal case is blessed by certainty,
endowed with freedom from doubt. The killing blow’s
beauty is that it does not waiver, only ends. I go on and
on, unsure of whether meaning is the target or the drag
coefficient, unsure of whether truths are measured by
the caliber of their countertruths or by the satisfying
thock I think I’d hear if I ever got somewhere.
Copyright © Abby Paige. Originally published in Arc Poetry Magazine (2017).
Abby Paige a writer and performer, currently based in New Brunswick. She posts updates about her work at http://www.abbypaige.com.