Bullet

I am a bullet.
Small. Insignificant.
A speck in the air:
hardened mote of
tears from the rock,
molten from fire,
and drowned in water.

I am a bullet.
Small. Insignificant.
Round
like the earth
from which I came
encircled in the claw
made by your thumb and
your pointing finger.

I am a bullet.
Anonymous. Unknown.
Like every other bullet
which came before me
and every other bullet
which will come after me:
made in your mold
as in your father’s mold
before you.

I am a bullet.
My life: fleeting and fast
made for that one moment
when you pluck me from a box
and lock me in a chamber.
Hit by a hammer, then:

I am a bullet.
Hard. Without feeling.
Forged in fire
polished with stone
so I offer no resistance
to that one moment
when my loveless kiss
pierces the body.

I am a bullet.
Hard. Without feeling.
I respect no gender
nor age
nor creed
nor race
nor rank
nor religion

nor you.

I am a bullet.
Small. Round.
Like the dot
that ends, with finality,
every sentence.

—-
Dominique Cimafranca teaches at the Ateneo de Davao University.