After his first heart attack,
I play with a bullet, thumb
the buffed casing and pick
at the lead. A week’s worth
of beer cans, pop cans,
and burnt-out light bulbs
clatter in the back seat
with the .22 and 9mm.
The truck rattles
down the gravel road
and we stop by our Sunday field.
The target’s backdrop
is made of railroad ties
stacked five high.
I place the cans and bulbs
in a processional line.
He glares down and says,
“I’m going to show you
how to use these pistols.”
I’m eight.
I drop the gun in the mud
and quickly pick it up,
use my shirt to clean it,
but he jerks the gun
from my shaky hand.
He stands behind
me with his arm reached out,
his hand grips around mine
as we both stare down the barrel.
His finger pulls my finger
against the trigger.
What keeps us
whole is ammunition.
He is the cold casing,
and I want to be the hot
lead that splits from the chamber.
