My story starts not where the bullet pierces flesh
but where the blood pools all around. Some waves
of pain never stop, no matter how well one writes
of healing. My story starts symbolically as a mirror
in front of which I knot my necktie, half-Windsor,
the way my late father taught me years ago, before
some other funeral. And so, my story starts with
a familiar version of grief constricting my throat.
In the church, I mutter something to myself that’s
partway between prayer and curse. I have no truth
to offer as hazardous as this — everyone wants
their lives fixed, but nobody wants to do the work
to repair them. I was most like the bullet when I
viewed life as a series of transient moments, but I’ve
settled down now. No one buries kinfolk or comrades
with a smile, especially after happiness becomes
a fugitive that evades us. Here’s another folded flag
atop the mantle. A new hashtag for social media.
A care package at the doorstep. Often a person only
gets called a victim once, and then they vanish.
The bluest note punctuates life’s ballad. Find hope,
not just for hope’s sake, but for how it disappears
without warning like a deadbeat relative. This is
how I plan to leave this life. Unceremoniously
as I came into it at birth, screaming out my tears
at a world overrun with ungrateful souls. My story
starts with a handful of well-meaning intentions
that I have since callously chucked out car windows
like roadside litter. I confess — I was not that good
of a person, but maybe I was good enough for you.
Adrian S. Potter, winner of the 2022 Lumiere Review Prose Award, writes in Minnesota when he’s not busy silently judging your beer selection and record collection. Potter is the author of three collections of poetry/prose/hybrid work, including the recent And the Monster Swallows You Whole (Stillhouse Books) and Field Guide to the Human Condition (CW Books).
