I wonder what it’s like to be a gun,
to be a fascist for a day and have
someone hold me tight, to show me
off like a diamond ring or a trophy.
To have someone adore me for my
dark shine and beauty, and kiss me
on the lips and die for the sake of
another man’s generation.
An exit wound of crows on the wall,
dripping heavy with teen spirit,
I could be the reason for a legend,
a martyr, and a selfish act.
Or perhaps if I were a gun, they
would take me church, where the
lined pews and alter take the form
of a lunatic’s shooting range.
They wouldn’t be able to live without
my chamber spinning and Russian
roulette dance for the nation, I could
promise to make them great again.
Imagine the power and control,
the same way two boys took it all
back, painted it black, and naturally
selected their fates.
From playground jump ropes and
detention slips, to Ruby Ridge and
Texas and the Middle-East, maybe
they would hate me.
Nevertheless, the line between love to
hate and hate to love have always
intersected at some pointed; much
like a standoff and a cross-hair.
I believe if I were a gun they would
finally say that God accepts me,
and I would be welcome to almost
any place without a disgusted look.
Both Omega and Alpha, Genesis
and Revelations, if my neck were
polished and thoughts loaded,
I could be the end’s beginning.
They would make plastic copies of me,
distribute them in toy stores and
make a child a cowboy or a solider
If there were a way to straighten my
spine and take the form of a weapon,
I wonder if they would dismantle me for
setting their vigils ablaze?
Or is it possible they would find a way
to bring me back into their homes, build
me from stolen parts and sell me for
what little purpose I have to offer?
Like an illegal immigrant, whose calloused
hands and sore fingers nail together a
wall for the blind and dumb; perhaps it’s
less about protection and more so fear.
But with all of this said, you can find me
beneath your mattress in a security
box; however, inside I am merely a
white flag and a dried up dandelion.
For if I were a gun I would not believe
in myself, and in the nearest river or
sea I would drown my very existence
and wash away the fingerprints.