On this border
A wall juts and breaks into dead land
A soldier fires its gun.
The gun listens as the shot reverberates
And jars sharply at the expulsion
Choking on waves of acrid fumes
Enduring the miles of sun in the folds of a sour-smelling uniform
The gun wants to be a child
Harmlessly spewing cherry pits and watermelon seeds
The gun wants to be the starting pistol
Of an Olympic race
The gun wants to be a branch
Launching showers and bombs of blossom
The gun wants to be a chrysalis
and disappear after releasing a single butterfly
One by one, each bullet finds a last home, to
Lodge in flesh or rattle in unseen cavities
For an instant, the emptiness swells and rages against the metal surrounding it
A tiny glow-worm of promise change breathes in the nothingness
As it cools silently in the shade of a wall
On this border.