i wanted to write 
a poem about something
important like school shootings
& here i am stalling to find
the words to tell you that today
i am not really sure
whether or not i succeeded in
willing myself into existence--
so much like bullet-- i want
to make that a metaphor but 
this poem has been written
too soon after someone's gun
has fired-- but there i am 
a bullet & there's blood
because of course there's blood
& my car has been over-heating--
i watch the little temperature 
gauge climbing as i reach the
first stop light on
the way out of town--
i picture the hood busting
into flames-- am i how
comets are born? no this is a bullet--
& i'm not scared of comets
but i'm scared that my car 
will break & i won't be 
able to drive to see you 
again & all the stop lights
will go dark & we'll have
to fend for ourselves--
your mouth a headlight
to make my shadow in-- it's
ash wednesday & everyone's got
those crosses on their foreheads
& in my room i grow envious
of the sky for being able
to rain-- what does this
have to do with bullets or fire?
& i'm terrified of
pot holes-- thinking
one might lead precariously 
into the barrel of a gun--
cocked & loaded-- hot engine--
i think of snapping my
steering wheel in two-- 
i'm angry & that terrifies me--
it's frustrating because i don't
have a metaphor for 
what i wanted to be today--
i hope my priest doesn't 
pray for me-- or notice my absence--
i altar served strictly
for the proximity to candles--
to comet-- to the prophecy of
this bullet-- i promised that
wouldn't be the metaphor
& i lied-- lied-- like 
a palm leaf for us 
to burn into ash-- 
that shouldn't be the metaphor--
what with the school shootings
& all & i've only ever
held a gun once-- i've never really
felt it kick in my hands--
metal father womb--
oh are these hormones a kind of
bullet or is it today? 
is this how we become ash?
is this the priest's chapped
wrinkled hand on my forehead--
reaching from the depths
of a pothole-- oh there--
there is hell & it's crumbly
& it has no steering wheel--
i pray to my green volvo 
at night-- for her bones &
her strep throat promises-- 
i tell her i need to drive
to see you-- 
incoming-- ashes wiped
on the back of my hand--
oh & i forgot about the blood--
the rain is of course jealous
of all this bleeding--
of all this washing & 
singeing & testosterone--
& there was a gun used--
blood or stop light--
needle in the thigh of the
comet-- at my desk
trying to coax the violence
back out of my blood--
oh sleep heavy tonight--
the car hood is warm--
today i might have
only passed by but tomorrow
i say to myself as i roll up
my windows--
fogging from my own heat--
i say tomorrow the 
stop lights will be back
& will sit there & 
wait for the comet to back around