Caracas Morning

by Margo Williams

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On a sunny morning,
a solitary bullet
kissed deep, blistering,
scattering like mist rising
past the moon, coiling and
barely circumventing the scrotum,
folding and unfolding past neural pathways,
clutching at thick-skinned
branches of tissue: shattering.

Now, all that is left:
an unplumbed crease
of poorly stitched flesh,
dormant metal buds beneath the skin - like silver pearls -
and a severed blind stump:
a seal-like thing, sightless in its
ceaseless roving. Restless for truth of just another express
kidnapping gone wrong.

The gunman knew it,
sketching an intended path
from crown to groin
to inner thigh.
Knew it like the noisy plazas, the
winding streets and the
coil of draft, knew it like sun-faded
shacks among
sloping mountain paths.

Knew it like hungry babies
and women’s lips parting,
knew it like rotting meat
and ripening fruit.
Knew it was the femoral artery
carrying the blood away
the heart.

Margo Williams holds an MFA from Emerson College; her poetry was a finalist in the Press 53 awards 2008, her one-act play Snake Oil, premiered at the Brown Coat Theatre in 2008. Her fiction has been anthologized and appeared in Beacon Street Review . Margo has a piece forthcoming in Glimmer Train (2010) and enjoys a position as full time faculty member at a small college situated on the banks of the Cape Fear River. She has been selected as a Hambidge Fellow-artist in residence -summer 2009.. Her poem “Caracas Morning” is based on her Venezuelan husband’s experience. Contact: .

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