The sharp pain, numb

after a fashion,

hit me like a snake bite,

a bullet from a concealed gun,

digging away into my head,

yet somehow keeping me alive,

forcing me to recognise this new

possible threat,

a moment to join the rest

of the doses

of passionate warfare

raging, skirmishing,

full blown nuclear assault,

in this tired, deserted body…

I could tear an advert free

stained white T-shirt in half

and wave it above my head, frantically

calling out, “Don’t shoot, I am

unarmed”, but in the end

a single bullet would ring out, followed

by a thousand more bee stings,

and my head, my narrowing neck

and my spine

would bear the marks

of the war

against my body.

 

Ian D. Hall 2017