Sarah Jack
Bullet Points
The first thing you feel is the heat. And then the burn. And then you would feel a blow,
says my civilian brother in the car two years after he incurred
a traumatic brain injury and became hell-bent obsessed with joining
the Marine Corps. It is four winters later and he is right here,
cornering me between our mother and the couch. And he is growing
so fast I am holding the warmth of his voice, I am counting his
eyelashes like breaths. And now he is screaming: tonight he is going to
kill me. And then himself. Shoot me — shoot himself. And he just keeps
screaming. And his throat is opening so loud that his face is turning violet.
And now he is collapsing into a pile of pink and navy blue and he is choking
on his threats as he is cowering and coming to. And my door does not
have a lock. And I am begging our mother to call an ambulance. And she is
not looking up from her magazine. And I am bolting for the door. I am running
as the blood leaks out of my purple face. And I keep swallowing wine dark snow,
bracing for the impact of that searing steel. We have never spoken
about that night. He lives in California now. He still talks about the heat.
The first thing you feel is the heat. And then the burn. And then you would feel a blow,
says my civilian brother in the car two years after he incurred
a traumatic brain injury and became hell-bent obsessed with joining
the Marine Corps. It is four winters later and he is right here,
cornering me between our mother and the couch. And he is growing
so fast I am holding the warmth of his voice, I am counting his
eyelashes like breaths. And now he is screaming: tonight he is going to
kill me. And then himself. Shoot me — shoot himself. And he just keeps
screaming. And his throat is opening so loud that his face is turning violet.
And now he is collapsing into a pile of pink and navy blue and he is choking
on his threats as he is cowering and coming to. And my door does not
have a lock. And I am begging our mother to call an ambulance. And she is
not looking up from her magazine. And I am bolting for the door. I am running
as the blood leaks out of my purple face. And I keep swallowing wine dark snow,
bracing for the impact of that searing steel. We have never spoken
about that night. He lives in California now. He still talks about the heat.
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Sarah Jack is a Chicago-based poet and screen printer. She is an Associate Editor at RHINO Poetry.
Sarah Jack is a Chicago-based poet and screen printer. She is an Associate Editor at RHINO Poetry.