he puts his hand on my shoulder
and leads me out to his back yard
there is a man’s silhouette
stapled to an oak tree some thirty yards away
he shows me how all the parts fit together
keep it clean, he says, keep it oiled
and never
point it at yourself
or others
his daughter opens the cellar door
steps barefoot onto the grass
greenest eyes you ever saw
if I could feel her breath
it would taste like Thunderbird
now look, she says, there’s no laundry detergent
how am I supposed to do the laundry
without laundry detergent
he puts his hand on my shoulder
and shows me how to hold it properly
thumb forward, he says, keep your arm straight
but don’t tense up
your arms shake
when you tense up
he shows me how to stand
keep both eyes open, he says, lean into it
press the trigger, but don’t squeeze
never squeeze
the magazine is empty
he leads me to the silhouette
there are six holes in the yellow paper
that, I ask, is not very good, is it
six out of fifteen, he says, no
that isn’t very good
but at least now you know
what it feels like
his daughter opens the cellar door
her hair is wet
her breasts are covered with a blue towel
the hot water, she says, is out again
you said you were going to fix it
you never do anything you say you’re going to
I feel sorry for him
he’s taught me more about firearms
than my father ever will
I want to speak
to tell the girl to go easy on him
but I don’t
I just keep my mouth shut
and shoot his guns
and sleep with his daughter
while he sits alone
in the cellar
and reads the magazines
and drinks Thunderbird in the dark
