My Father's Gun by Elise Patchen

[miserbrothers.livejournal.com]

My mother never guessed I was her witness
the afternoon she emptied out his closet,
saw her unclasp the case, as if embossed

with gold, watched her touch it, heft it in hand,
then place it back, her wedding stone refracting.
Waking at night to find my door outlined

by light, I made a wish: to grow as tall
as my mother, to reach the shelf, to leave
behind a curl of smoke, a thin suggestion,

a jinn escaped from its underground bottle
like those collected after their late dinners,
spiraling out to slither through the crack

of their bedroom door, twisting up into
the refuge of my father's closet, shielded
by rows of reassuring shoes, clean soldiers

called to attention, shoe-trees snug inside.
Invisible in smoke, I'd take the gun
and hurl it out into the quiet lake,

that place where children play their games
safe as houses and, sinking, it would leave
a wake of rings within rings within rings.

Comments

[exceptindreams.livejournal.com]

I really like this. Thank you.

[duathir.livejournal.com]

Haunting; thank you.

[fish-bunny.livejournal.com]

it would leave a wake of rings within rings within rings

oh god that's amazing.