Periods like Bullet Holes
by Benjamin Brindise
I bought a notebook on the day
another gunman opened fire in San Bernardino, California
It called to me from the shelf of a discount store
In the car, the radio had mentioned an active shooter
and those wavelengths were still playing off the insides of my head
their bend, a twist, to not let me forget
It called to me like the voices of those whose chapter closed
the displacement of so many breaths never taken
pushed air through it
like a closing page
And I picked it up and felt the black grip,
ran my fingers in the golden type face
I hoped I could fill the pages
with descriptions of things I thought were beautiful
and broken, and scarred, and twisted
in just the right way
before a gunman opens fire here
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