Tenant

Like an ideal tenant
the bullet fits precisely in the wound,
closer than a friend,
a relative, a lover.

Removing it, what can we
give the body in exchange
to accommodate it
half so well?

Always the unexpected caller,
it only sleeps with strangers,
never fails to find the perfect host,
and it in turn

becomes the perfect guest
bringing no gift but itself,
demanding nothing. Lying
cradled in the flesh,

never struggling to emerge,
cushioned in that hollow
as if it knew each curve,
it wraps itself in silence.

 

© Ruth Daigon