I ask you, beloved:
what will my killer look like?
Will they come
at night or in wide daylight?
Will they be
in finery stitched from silk, from satin,
dressed in Queen Anne’s lace?
Will they wear
simple cloth, broadcloth,
Kevlar, rags from an old body?
Will they curse
me out for being so much
or so little of what they expected?
Will they feel
it — plunge of bullet
into flesh, easy slip of a blade,
choking hold on my neck?
Will they feel
resistance build, conflict,
bite of holy arms I took up
for glory, for defense, simply
for something to do that felt right?
Will I be scared
or unknowing of what will happen,
what could happen?
Will I turn
toward children nearby, near the old,
the new to this country who did not ever
expect this, the longer term residents who
knew this in their bones, knew it was coming,
the old ones who did not expect this ever?
Will I wring
my hands as they do not, sneering
or worse yet turning away with
a notch in the belt, a nick
in the butt of a gun casually
keeping something like a track?
I ask you, beloved:
where did they come from?
You may go home all a-quiver,
praying for an answer,
wondering about them and their
casual loyalty, their boots
caked with asphalt and a friend’s blood;
asking yourselves as well:
where did they come from? Because
it certainly wasn’t here.
It certainly wasn’t here.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T