NaPoWriMo April 4

Charging bayonet

                        Plate 359—Eadward Muybridge

The man with the gun must be thinking, out there

is the center of his purpose. The grains of the gun's wood

snug against the hip-bone. Left arm cradling the long barrel

so that the tip with the affixed blade tilts upward. Heart-level.

Purpose breathes its long kiss into his ear. A breathless kiss

held so that the man's stomach cinches into a concave sack.

Love falls where the wind carries his body—in short

asthmatic huffs as the man's legs move him forward, left

right, left. All the while, the butt of the rifle presses against

his flesh. Spring air let into the studio pulls the dark velvet

curtains from their rods as the coffee cools. Just as casually

a knife, raised up against the black backdrop says "look."

The man's shadow shakes in the new light as his bayonet

halves the air, fits itself into the fissures of an imagined breastbone.

Purpose as close to the edge of the picture frame as an arm. Purpose

to fill the wound, half bloodied and hot. The urge of the rifle

slaps against his thigh.  Purpose as far as a country

where no memory can drive itself as deep as the hilt.