The clicks sounded like music
whenever they traveled
through my bedroom door.
It was the theme
of my father’s return from work,
but also his departure from home.
I sometimes spied from the doorway
as he conducted the symphony
of his police handgun.
Loading and unloading it
in one simple flick,
that western Clint Eastwood wannabe.
I probably saw him open his armoire
thousands of times to stow it away.
Never once thinking to go
and grab it in my own hands.
It never interested me
to come and investigate.
Instead, it filled me with fear.
I wanted nothing to do with that gun
that lived among my dad’s socks and t-shirts.
I used it instead
as a marker for my dad
making it home safely
or leaving for duty once more.
___________________________________________________________
BY NICK FLYNN
One boyfriend said to keep the bullets
locked in a different
room.
Another
urged
clean
it
or it could explode.
Larry
thought I should keep it
loaded
under my bed,
you
never know.
I bought it
when I didn’t feel safe.
The barrel
is oily,
reflective, the steel
pure, pulled from a hole
in West Virginia. It
could have been cast
into anything, nails
along the carpenter’s
lip, the ladder
to balance the train.
Look at this, one
bullet,
how
almost nothing it is—
saltpeter sulphur lead Hell
burns sulphur, a smell
like this.
safety
& hammer, barrel & grip
I don’t know
what I believe.
I remember the woods
behind my father’s house
horses beside the quarry
stolen cars lost in the
deepest wells,
the water below
an
ink waiting to fill me.
Outside a towel hangs from a cold line
a
sheet of iron in the sky
roses
painted on it, blue roses.
Tomorrow it will still
be there.
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