You said you couldn’t bring me the book, You didn't want to risk getting flagged at the airport. Why? It's just poetry. Because, it might be, would be, maybe considered contraband. Poetry is a semi-automatic rifle, its maker's name sounds foreign its letters look weird, not what you'd call American. What is it? Arabic? Urdu? Farsi? God forbid, Cyrillic? Mandarin, figures. And each chamber contains incendiary words Upon high-velocity impact, they ignite, extreme heat, at a thousand Celsius, the victim's organs liquefy, bones splinter fragments shoot off might hit a passerby, another victim. But that's a lie, you know it, the words reawaken in the victim, a long desire for a brother, for a sister, a tidal wave sweeps us in a deep revelation: we're united, and when we open the book bullets fly with butterfly wings.
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