Today's poem is by Michael Okafor

The Bullets Are Thinking About My Body Again
       

The bullets are thinking about my body again,
their hunger wrapped in copper—the metallic
guise of blood-harvesters. Can you see them leave the
throat of the gun like lava? The way it slams into me
like a lover, without consideration. The way it
leaves my skin glossy with the red of its affection.
You poor sad thing, no one will
ever make love to you that way.
There's something about blood that makes it
crave metal. Sorry about the blood on your shirt,
sorry I cried when your dog died. Forgive me, I keep going
back to the city where the clumsy hand of a policeman sends
a flock of birds crashing into the body of a boy, the
light escaping where the window is painted red.
Forget the blood;
this is not your body.
I shouldn't have mentioned the birds. They keep
mistaking my rib for a birdcage. Oh, the things I
pretend to be when they start singing with their copper throats.
I want to be beautiful. I want to dance until the blood blurs my
body into silence. Come closer. I want you to look at
me like I'm something interesting. Do not look away now.
Blink if you're still there.
I'm sorry, I can't breathe;
The birds are flooding my lungs again.

Copyright © 2025 Michael Okafor All rights reserved
from The Shore
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission