The screech-squeal of siren brakes
Stabs through my head
Piercing my ears —
A new hole to bleed from.
Christ, you didn’t take them all;
There are a thousand wounds you
Never suffered so bad,
And the assassin’s bullets kneecap
Another victim of inarticulate rage.
Fourty-and-four; you had it merciful.
Scars, yes, but only on the skin:
Those heal the quickest, and are soon forgotten;
The brain is slower
To forgive intrusions, the probes of memory.