A pale moth would have alighted
on the crown of your head
instead of an eyeless bullet.

One smokey night of windless,
unrestrained detonation,
someone’s gun whispered
and spat the slug to the air,
into the cables of your brain.

That slug, still full metal jacket,
beheld the bursting marvel
imprinted on your brain
and scattered them to bits
inside the armor of your skull.

No one is safe under heaven.
The culprit could be as innocent
as a harmless pale moth
and yet so full of hatred
even before he pulled the trigger.

No one is safe under heaven.

(for Stephanie Nicole Ella)