My high school boyfriend
put one in my hand once
insisting I hold it
though the weight of it frightened me
the heavy unfamiliarity
its grave, manly shape
He slid it from the glove compartment
while he was driving
pressed it to my palm
like it was some crude Braille
of who he was or could be
of what I had to learn
He said it wasn’t loaded
but that I should point it down
A gun demands respect, he said
annoyed at my timidity
accepting it at last
as close enough to awe
He collected rifles
kept them clean and trenchant
racked above the couch
where every afternoon
we lay clothed and grinding
blissful, gun-shy virgins
He and his twin brother
never used their rifles
except for hunting rats
in the swamp behind their house
exploding them
with guns meant for elephants
The twins were volunteers
to an ambulance corps
where they watched porno flicks
while they waited
for the smell of blood
to call for them
Blue movies, he called them
making them sound pretty and mysterious
instead of clumsy sex watched
in a cold garage
by boys and men in white slacks
like new communicants
I haven’t held one since
that suburban Sunday drive
the boy is long gone, too
shed like all virginity
in gambled, profligate leaps
pointed with regret
Someone said he went to jail
for a daughter who sold drugs
from his house filled with guns
protected against intruders
who might inch through proper fences
with precise desires
I wonder if, in prison, there was talk
of blue movies, blood, guns
like hieroglyphic resumés
or if the men saved such tailored dreams
for women they hoped were waiting
to decipher them
I once loved a boy who loved guns
who bought me a sheer white nightgown
I slept in alone at another house
who lay a pistol in my hand
a token weathercock
for the coming winds
This version of “Cusp” was published in the journal Earth’s Daughters, Buffalo, NY, 2006.
CUSP as a pantoum
My high school boyfriend
put one in my hand once
insisting I hold it
though the weight of it frightened me.
He put it in my hand
its grave, manly shape,
the weight of it, frightened me
the crude Braille of who he could be.
Its grave, manly shape
pointed down, as he commanded
like crude Braille of who he was and could be
of what lessons I had to learn.
Pointed down, as he commanded,
A gun demands respect, he said
a lesson I had to learn
like alphabet or catechism.
A gun demands respect, he said
taking the homage of my fear
like alphabet or catechism
loaded, but undeciphered.
Taking the homage of my fear
he put the gun away again
loaded, but undeciphered
like a treasure held in pawn.
He put the gun away again
and raised my hand to his mouth
like a treasure held in pawn
his eyes a soft question.
He raised my hand to his mouth
then it was time to go
his eyes a soft question
neither of us would say.
Then it was time to go
home to my sister and mother
neither of us would say
there had been any change.
Home with my sister and mother
I stared in the mirror to see
if there had been any change
in the person behind my face.
I stared in the mirror to see
insisting I hold it
the person behind my face
my high school boyfriend.