I Love My Gun: A Confessional

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

For everything.

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,”

Says James,

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.

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