BULLET Poem by Carlos López Degregori

I have a bullet made of icy silver to give you.

I prepared it last night with dirty, sweet, infallible blood. I prayed with it for hours. I attended it with candles and the most secret invocations.

First off, I blinded it, because a bullet must never see the ominous air or the body it will encounter. After, I deafened it, so that it wouldn't hear the cries or threats or music of the flesh and bones while shattering.

I only left it lips so it could whistle.

Understand what I say:

whistles are bullets' words: they are their ruthless final kisses piercing the smoothness of the night; their wonder and their plea, their breath.