Arts Alive San Antonio

Hollow: A Spent Shell Speaks
Bu Marla Dial Moore

I wasn’t meant for you,
            my little one.
Had I the power, I’d have
            stopped in my tracks,
     flown back
knowing

I was once like you,
            pulsing with potential
                        to build bridges,
                                    stitch wounds,
                        grace paintings.
Both of us untempered, easily shaped,
our purpose unknown but unfolding.
I came cheap —but you were dear.

I wasn’t meant for you,
little one, but nor could I choose
these men, these boys
who reached for me
time after time after time.
            No discussions; few words:
“How much?”
                        “Can you pay?”
they’d say, in low voices;
All different ages — young and old,
            A rainbow of races.
I studied their hands, their faces,
row upon row: Some traced my form
                        with a lover’s touch,
Some were indifferent,
            chafed and rough,
                        With eyes as empty as
                                    my own hollow tip —
diversified states,
            united by fear.

I wasn’t meant for you,
            my hurting son —
                        but no laws kept us apart.
Perhaps you dreamed
                        that I’d save you from
            the growing darkness in your heart.
I could not square that circle.

I came not to save, only shatter.
            My release, through rage and fire,
                        seals my mission:
Screams shred the air at the speed of light,
            And striking a target, whether left or right,
                        needs no luck, no training or skill.
            Small bodies fall,
now silent and still.

For me, there is no exit.
            I was designed to explode like a rocket,
                        feeling my full, fatal shape unfurl
                                    from a simple stamen
                        to a leaden flower
            unnamed by Nature.

You were not meant for this,
            my little ones —
Had I a voice, I’d have
                                    asked for your forbearance,
as I did not choose your suffering.
But my force too is spent,
and we who are dead
            no longer beg for pardons.