a poem about guns

her father

keeps a
.45
under
the
mattress
and
another
one
in the
nightstand

along with

a .38
in the
kitchen
in
the
drawer
with
the
calendar
and
pens
and
he keeps
another
.38
on the
table
in the
living room,
the table
next to
his recliner
right there
with the
ashtray and
the
remote control

and let’s
not forget
the .357
in the
​glovebox
of his
truck
and the
one
he keeps
always
in the
small
of his
back

and his wife

she has
a
derringer
tucked
into the
recesses
of her purse

he comes
to dinner

loads his
plate
with
roast
beef
and
potatoes
and
gravy
and
pours
salt
all over
everything

she says

dad…

all that
salt, you
know

don’t you
have
to
worry
about
your
heart?

red-faced
he says
no, and
takes
a draw
from his
brown
bottle
just opened
and
cold

the
heart
don’t
matter
much

when

you’re not afraid to die