Girlfriend of Las Vegas Gunman Says Her Fingerprints Would Likely Be on Ammo

When it was hard for him
to sleep
she matched her breath to his
then waited
while they arced together
into night’s grave,
consciousness like a shot
pulled beneath
the line of its trajectory
by the force
no one can see. Those stale
Sundays they ended
up at the range with a bag
of guns
lugged in heavy from the car.
The open air
always did them good, and there
was something
intimate in seeing him
take aim.
He always bested everyone,
tore up the place.
After, she did her small part
while they watched
news of other people’s
cataclysms.
Ammunition wedged warm
between them
on the couch, they loaded
the magazines.
Each elegant bullet
was powerless
without its weapon.
Like a woman
with no man to see her.
Sometimes,
she wants him back.
He touched her
the way she touched
those bodies.
Her fingerprints
entering them
on every round,
his love
lodged inside her
like a ghost.