The First and Last Time I Shot a Gun

I’m crossing the street,

Doing a word seek puzzle,

Confessing to a friend,

Putting chapstick on wind-bitten lips,

When it hits–

It is an island, a wave, a bullet.

It is a hollow point that enters my chest

And explodes upon impact.

It’s been ten years and the shrapnel

Is still there, yearning for an exit.

My brother took me out back one day,

Put the grip in my hands and told me

It would be loud.

Twelve years later and I’m still

Shooting the same old can,

Still waiting for that

Eruption of noise.

But the grief entered a long time ago

And never made a sound.