Who Knew?

Who knew that woman could cry,
so many damned tears.
So many damned screams.
Eye to eye, our gazes meet.

The piece in one hand,
a man's life in another.
Which is worth its subsistence?
Its inherent adulteration of the earth?

A gun's virtue, is measured in
how many lives it takes.
How could a machine,
fabricated of ore and powder
carry the burden and ponderosity of a soul,
and become so much more than the sum
of its parts.

Her eyes glaze, with the
pull of the trigger,
his mind full of lead,
his limp figure collapsed to the canvas.

And in bed she lay,
the blood of her lover
she tastes, an intimacy
undeserving of even her.

And I'd do any one thing to see her face
Who knew that woman could cry
for me.

Joey M. Gorman