The Assassin of Brussels

One second ago you were the third
person from the back
of the line.

Now they picking out pieces of you
from the airport ceiling.

In the moment of your destruction
you felt a great empathy for the one
you were to have killed,

that woman in Paris who had betrayed
the wrong person, some cross-eyed fat
gutted dope
who nonetheless had the means and ways

to commit life-ending revenge.

A flash of hot clarity, too fast
even for slow motion, the eyes go
first, as soft as jelly, the momentary

taste of yourself on your own
tongue. The explosion catches
everyone off-guard except

the destroyed. Your train
of murderous thought interrupted

forever.