There are so many ways to eat ammunition.
Hot bullets in honey. Buckshot with mango
chutney. Sweet-hot missiles on sub rolls.
A bullet is not an ice cube, it won’t melt
on your tongue. It’s not a wishbone either.
I once wrestled my brother to the floor
for the last bullet in the house. Who knew
when mother would get more? My grandmother
had the best bullets; we would swipe them
from the closet in the spare room, eat them out back.
When she died, we found bullets hidden all over
the house: under afghans in the cellar, in a safe.
Who knew she had a safe? My grandfather
was so surprised: What the hell am I going to do
with all these bullets? We took some to the bingo hall
and the church. Someone suggested Africa.
Eat your goddamn bullets.