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.
You don’t see the barrel shine
until light flashes on your teeth,
ivory levers,
set for the smallest slip.
The tongue snaps a silver slide,
chambering a syllable
before thought clears its throat.
A goodbye goes through drywall,
lodges where the house keeps breathing,
long after the argument
has aired itself out.
oil the hinges of vowels,
pretend we don’t know
that recoil bruises the hand,
and what’s spent
stays spent.
Excellent. Conversation as violence, every utterance an intrusion into the territory of your silence. Language is ALWAYS metaphor, and the careful, accurate description of any complex process can illuminate others, if you bring the steady light of your mind, and the flickering but often brighter flare of your emotions to bear on it.
ReplyDeleteThank you very much for your input.
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