Running before he even knew
what had hit him,
centipede stain of blood,
staggered breaths.

The first, point-blank,
shock of bullet sound
ricocheting from the windows,
instant crumpling of a life.

The second, a swing and miss,
then the flee through a chilled
capital night, punctured by my blunder,
the headlines ready to bleed.

I assume he is dead.
These words scrawled, emaciated letters,
the weapon they can never find
burrowed into my palm.

The journalists are poised, ready to sting.
I already know the grim language
they will use to blame,
allegations flying like agitated wasps.

Is this my confession?
Perhaps, to myself only,
my closing calamity, my sugar-rushed finger
on the trigger. Reckless.

And her shriek, a shriek of horror
like a chimney of bees, my body
halfway up Malmskillnadsgatan by then,
your husband wheezing his last.

Take my truth any way you want,
they’ll be chasing me forever.
If they come, I shall admit;
I know ****** like the back of my hand.