Darcie Dennigan was born and raised in Rhode Island and currently lives in Los Angeles. Her poems have been published in American Letters & Commentary, Atlantic Monthly, Black Warrior Review, Court Green, Forklift Ohio, H_NGM_N, Indiana Review, Tin House, jubilat, and Swink, and were anthologized in 180 More: Extraordinary Poems for Every Day. In 2007, she received the Discovery/The Nation prize.

Bullet

It was like a heavy seed, so I thought, Plant it.

No soil so I swallowed it.

How to make it not the thrown stone, not the grape 
    of wrath.

Make it not the animal’s eye gleaming at the attack.

Think tuft of cotton not glint of cobalt. 

A bluebell in my woods near moss.

There will be a loud report.

No. There will be snow falling on the shrub.

It was a heart and I its house and I opened 
    my door and it went out.

Small button on a blouse, then buckle of a belt.

But there was its pulse.

The tip of a jackhammer, tongue of an alarm.

I sang along.

I looked right in the mother’s gleaming eye.

It’s innocent, I said. Innocent.

Small ball.

No. I swear when my fingers unfurled I held— 
    a silver jonquil.

Maybe I mothered when I should have fathered.

Maybe a seed not for the start but for the end.

There was a small ball in the boy’s fist. And a voice
    in his ear, Throw it.

 (originally published in Atlantic Monthly)