You were undeflected.
Nickel-tipped, solid silver,
Trajectory perfect
As though through ether. Even the cheek-scar,
Where you seemed to have side-swiped concrete,
Served as a rifling groove
To keep you true.
Till your real target
Hid behind me. Your Daddy,
The god with the smoking gun. For a long time
Vague as mist. I did not even know
I had been hit.
Or that you had gone clean through me —
To bury yourself at last in the heart of the god.

In my position, the right witchdoctor
Might have caught you in flight with his bare hands.
Tossed you, cooling, one hand to the other.
Godless, happy, quieted.
I managed
A wisp of your hair, your ring, your watch, your nightgown.