Rifle

It was in the Northern Catskill
Mountain wilds off the beaten path 

that I held one once, a rifle,

long, sleek, solid, weighty and hand

made of fine-grained wood and cool iron.

We had gathered for this purpose—

to become familiar with what

we hated—a group of women

who cared to explore more than one

side, so we knew our enemy.

I loved the words of it and liked

how it fit my arms—butt and stock

and trigger, forestock, barrel, bolt,

chamber, magazine, and safety.

Mustn’t forget safety.  I fired.

I cannot forget the recoil—

kickback for the projectile I

had inflicted on the target,

a target with open circles

and bulls eye ready to receive

I dreamed of guns after that day

how I could thrust myself between

their threat and target, pointed at

unmercifully “lock, stock, and

barrel” an idiom for “all”

I saw myself more often as

target, waiting, a dot of red

on my forehead just below the

apple, and, to my horror, most

often as the one with the gun.

If I went to such a workshop

today, I would want to hold

them all:  assault rifles, battle

rifles, carbine, sniper, auto-

matic, repeating, revolving

Anything that could be bought and

carried into a school or play

ground: handguns, bee bee guns, sling shots,

knives, pens, scissors, hate and more hate ...

How do we hold it, the weight of hate?

Thinking out loud, connecting the dots.

Read at The Green-Line Cafe "Gun-Kulture" event in Philadelphia, then posted at Poets United Poetry Pantry #155.

Submitted for Rattle  7/10/2013
Copyright © 2013 S.L.Chast

Rewritten: Learning about Guns 3-24-2018