I Love My Gun: a Confessional
I love my 28 gauge Beretta over and under shotgun.
It came in a green case with leather
Straps strapping it in.
The case makes one think of medical instruments
Or maybe shoes for very tall thin people.
When you open the case there is a compartment
This is one of the reasons I like it.
Small square places for chokes
And long narrow places for barrels,
My gun has two barrels that are interchangeable:
One for small kills and the other, for big.
I like to open the case and look at
All the compartments filled up.
Sometimes I lift up a barrel and smell it:
Oil, powder, dirt, explosions.
I often do this before breakfast.
I wonder why I am not ashamed.
I shoot flying clay discs
Into shards for an archeologist to piece.
I am comfortable shooting.
I hold the gun like a “born shooter,”
An ex-marine wife-abuser deer-killer who teaches me.
We walk along paths
Wearing camouflage gear
Brown human clothes with hats and boots
And one can hardly tell we are not human.
James has huge leather pouches of
Ammo strapped to his trim waist
Like a male Scarlet O’Hara
When I shoot he never says “good” but
“Kill” when the disc shatters over primeval preserves.
There must be a genetic flaw here,
You don’t have to tell me.
As soon as I got the gun I felt powerful:
Long and cool
Ready to engorge
I could stroke it in its case
And put it away in the closet.