Bullet

How did he hold his gun?
Was he on the run?
Would you tell me the reason,
Even if there was none?

All I know is,
Grief always weighs a ton.
The bullet pierced her,
Laterally,
Through her lungs.

Liver lacerations,
An injured kidney,
Felt through gloves.

The pneumothorax is fixable,
The diaphragm is in crisis.
But it’s okay,
We patch it up,
And set aside our vices.

The aorta is intact,
So is the coronary sinus.
One lung may be deflated,
But its counterpart still rises.

Kidneys come in pairs,
She won’t need dialysis.
When it comes to bones,
It just nicked the spinous.

Today,
At least,
She will not be lifeless.

But I’m not one for promises.

Life,
After all,
Is a thing of its own devices.

Death,
However,
Comes in all shapes and sizes.

After all,
Medicine is but a practice,
But as far as gun shots go,
This is a good prognosis.

Still,
For a time,
She won’t be conscious.

But trust me,
For this,
That would be rather reckless.

When we can be,
We do favor the cautious.

All of this to say,
Whether it’s god or luck or goddess,
A full recovery is likely,
Despite acts of senseless violence.