exit wound

When I stand before you,

I place a hand on each shoulder.

My left is where the bullet

went in, the other near your heart.

Through your cotton shirt, I cannot feel

the scar the bullet left.

But turn around, my love.

I’ll do it again—one hand

on each shoulder, from the back.

I feel the curved, round space,

the divot where the bullet came out

fifty-five years ago.

I say,

“Put an apple in there, my dear,

in case you get hungry later.”