Today's poem is by Amanda Newell

Ammunition
       

After Fang snapped photos of the boys & sent them to you
to show he knew where we lived & where they went to daycare,

your carry permit came in two days & so did the state police,
who drove from Pikesville to surveil our home the way you

surveil with trail cams the deer you hunt with your bow
& muzzleloader, the 12 gauge that leans against the safe

in the game room, where you keep all your dead.
Your .45 caliber Sig Sauer is the thing you said

would keep us safe, that you still keep loaded, no safety,
in your jeans drawer. Because a gun is no good

if you can't get to it in time. Because a good man
with a gun is better than. Because the worst part of a threat is

the always-waiting-but-never-knowing-when of it.
Sometimes I dream I die at the Food Lion—close range,

a single shot to the head, my blood spattering frozen
peas & lima beans. Sometimes I dream you die,

your body bagged, loaded on a stretcher outside the county
courthouse. I have learned to live with drawerfuls of shotshells

& the clink of brass bullets as they spill from your pockets
in the spin cycle. I have learned the hollow-point bullet

is best for self-defense because of the way it blooms
in soft tissue. But the day you left your Sig, loaded,

on the kitchen table, the boys were home, & I learned
I could say it: "I will leave you." How many times

have I sworn it? "Don't make promises you can't keep,"
Chekhov said. "One must not put a loaded rifle on the stage

if no one is thinking of firing it." Yet, here we are,
loaded guns across the page, & I still can't pull the trigger.

Copyright © 2024 Amanda Newell All rights reserved
from Postmortem Say
Červená Barva Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission