[GUEST POETRY]

Ballistics 

 by Sheila Tombe

Research on the web confirms my suspicion; the small hole

in the back window of my car (parked as always

under the cherry and pines) was made by a projectile

traveling at a speed upwards of 760 mph.

So.  Probably not a pine cone, then.

The cracks radiating across the glass from the entry wound

are myriad, ready like the trigger on a booby-

trapped bomb. I touch the surface; immediately,

it implodes with a sigh heaved downwards; surprising,

uneven chunks—compelled by gravity—fall into the car

(at about 10 mph, I suppose).  

Yet still attached in its corner isthmus, in case I might forget,

a bullet hole.  Angle of entry dictates that the shot

came from a height; one roughly equivalent, as I guess,

to a second-floor apartment. . . like the one across the street.

(Unless it was borne through the leaves from the branch

of an intervening tree? Unlikely perch for a Friday night sharpshooter!) 

But then, I imagine, this shooter was neither

sharp nor flat, whistling through air in tune like Elvis

Costello singing “my aim is true” (which was first recorded

for black vinyl rotating

at 45 rpm). 

No.  I conjecture this stray bullet, looking for Alison

yet not finding her, is the product of a late-night session

featuring shots of tequila, or worse, traveling at speeds

as comfortable

as a swallow.

"Born and raised in Belfast, Northern Ireland. Educated in Belfast and Glasgow.  Employed in Madrid; Hamamatsu, Japan; Columbia, SC; and Beaufort, SC. Retired by a river. Tolerated by cats and dogs.  Fed by literature, music, and light. Enchanted by ideas and engrossed in making words work. Now at law school--at 51--and fascinated." 
- fr her home page on HubPages where she writes as Teresa McGurk .


.
.