Poem from "My Father's Gun"

Empty the Chamber

Dad keeps a loaded
.357 Magnum on top
of his dresser.

At the firing range, he wipes
drug dealers off streets,
guns down intruders.

My father shows me
paper targets riddled with holes,
obliterated faces and hearts.

He grew up in Baltimore,
will make someone
pay for its ruin.

I’ve felt his anger on my skin
know in real life
he will not hesitate.

He hears things at night,
crouches in boxer shorts,
points his weapon with both hands

at shadows from streetlamps.
“Feel the weight,” he says.
I empty the chambers, run

bullets through my fingers,
squeeze the trigger once,
hand back the gun.