Anger was not felt in my bones, did not creep
up my spine when smoke escaped dad’s gun.
The sharp caress cradled a femur; explosions
of marrow couldn’t comprehend that dad refused
therapy, forgot to lock away arms and now sister
can’t find inches of skin. The raw flesh almost
lost dad his job. Shouts from his six cylinder
chewed on mom’s nerves, making her leap
through the air as she watched metallic ducks
tumble over backwards. The fake animals
affirmed his aim. They squawked at copper
casings when dad realized his son stopped
being his cowboy the minute diapers outgrew
toy holsters. His son would never be a deputy
with palms cocked and loaded to the brim,
but he took his six year old shooting
and they bonded over the violence.
No comments:
Post a Comment