When a bullet leaves the mouth of a shark

into the belly of my mother,

it renders the skin away from fat,

teachers her  

to rent space in my body

for secrets. 

“Don’t you know,” it says.

You must 

                Hide, hide, hide

God between her gums and 

                fold, fold, fold 

enough hope. A gallon or two for the march

into the barrel of a foreign land.

The entrance

to fear

from grief

is narrow.

               The barrel,

               is [only] wide

               enough to

               allow loss.

               language

               to name.                           

A bullet is a 

wound 

watching the future

               alchemize into ash,

forcing death into rooms of tiny bodies.