I Dream About Buying a Gun
I don’t want to hurt anybody,
I don’t want to cause sorrow or pain.
I don’t want to kill my enemies,
but I dream about buying a gun.
I dream about a gun —
how I’d feel holding it,
my fingers wrapped around its grip.
I imagine stroking its barrel
and nuzzling its muzzle,
polishing my gun till it shines,
then storing it in a velvet-lined box.
When I’m anxious, I’d take my gun out
and rub its cylinders and trigger guard
like worry stones, sometimes caressing
the hammer and trigger itself.
I dream about a gun making me feel safer,
especially when I’m alone at night
reliving the most recent aggression
that threated to burst into violence —
today it was road rage,
last week a man’s fist near my head.
I don’t want to pull a trigger,
though I admit I’ve imagined
a few bloody scenes.
I don’t even want to walk up
to a counter that sells guns,
but I dream about them
all day and all night.