a rough hand pressed the mute metal into her shaking hand
once alone
she spreads the bullets out on kitchen table
in silence, playing with them like a child with her dolls
it was the strangest gift god knew for a boy to give a girl
a girl like her, of all the girls- small, too pale, covered in lacy freckles
the metal rosary grew cold and hard on her neck, despite the
wool sweater insulation
she is his girl in the woods
when daylight turns their endless empire into the small Irish town
he refuses to look her in the eyes
under daylight, life was a monotonous rocking
under cover of night, with him, Sligo was a new, undiscovered world
without fear, she places the six bullets in a jam jar on her bureau, decoration
knowing good well her mother, siblings, or worst of all- father could find them there
settled still, cold in the bottom of the jam jar
but alive, and gleaming under the dusty glass