The act itself was shocking—
the bullet in the brain above
the shades, the slow-moving
sea spreading breadthwise,
manifest destiny away from
the gray matter center. But
what struck me most was
not the shot or the felled
man now face to face with
his dead, ceiling-mirror self,
it was the moment just before
when he bet it all on black
and everything came up crows
or gold or freedom. This
miserable man felt whole
for a split second before
his brain was split through.
The bullet, a gift. A gift
that meant he’d never be
empty again, just gone.
Full and floating to some
land where every hand
is a heater and no one
comes to cool you off.