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april fourth, nineteen sixty eight
is this a jaw i see, so square and perfect,
barely containing the word “dream?”
his jaw, so perfect.
I must destroy it, even though the unhappy
task will be credited to a man with
three names, for assassins, if they
are successful, always have three
names. if they fail, they are just
john hinckley. i see his jaw, and i
must pierce it, with every ounce of
force behind me. i will not get the
credit for causing the gaping wound,
nor will they report decades later
that i went through his neck,
taking a carotid shower along the
way. they will not tell their children
that i sliced his spinal cord, so simply,
as though it were tissue paper.
and they will not remember that i
finally rested in his shoulder blade,
as though it were a womb. i fell
asleep there.
(c) 2003 Rashid Darden
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