We are occupied by gods. The mistake is to identify with the god occupying you. 

Michael Ondaatje

I.

As in a shootout, bullets crack against brick 

or drywall. You hunker where surprised, 

cheek pressed to a chair leg, body straining 

to disappear into the well of a closet, a desk, 

a bathroom stall. The air thunders with 

ragged breathing. At any moment (it seems), 

you will stare into the matte black eye

of a gun, dry-mouthed with terror. 

You suddenly realize that you occupy 

another’s plan, incidental to another’s

desire. Caught up, you are collateral 

damage. You pretend to be dead, innocuous,

Later when interviewed, you will stammer 

that you don’t remember. It happened 

so fast, even your chance for heroism 

swamped by self-absorption.

II. 

Everyone on the floor, they said. Hands

where we can see them. You flatten yourself, 

cheek against carpet. (This may be the last thing 

you feel, this rough irritation.) You dig your fingers 

into its ungenerous nap, all of you straining, oddly,

towards those above you. You will be asked to map 

this time. Like a choreographer, you will trace 

each step, each combination. Here is where they first 

emerged. Here is where they shot and shot again. 

Here is where some were struck. Here is where 

one fell. You watched his eyes cloud. You saw 

him leave. You want to say you stood 

between malevolence and someone’s 

loved one. Instead, you ran invisible strings 

from each of their limbs to an invisible crossbar.

You imagined them dancing backwards 

through the door-frame, saw yourself spring up, 

all of you, rising from the dead, saved.

III.

Later, you will learn who they were, where and why

they grew disaffected. You will know their names,

grinding the syllables between your molars, writing 

them on scraps to burn. You will obsess about  

how a million chances coalesced, how a handful 

of upflung scraps assembled, sweeping you 

into the day’s news. Suddenly, you will believe 

in exorcism, pay good money to cast out demons.