Ballistics, Praise (Okunade) Ayowole (March 2026)

Ballistics

The safety is always off.
You don’t see the barrel shine
until light flashes on your teeth,
ivory levers,
set for the smallest slip.
 
We don’t speak; we fire.
The tongue snaps a silver slide,
chambering a syllable
before thought clears its throat.
 
A hello can graze.
A goodbye goes through drywall,
lodges where the house keeps breathing,
long after the argument
has aired itself out.
 
All night we field-strip our mouths,
oil the hinges of vowels,
pretend we don’t know
that recoil bruises the hand,
and what’s spent
stays spent.