You Are a Rifle in My Closet
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You are a rifle in my closet, kept there until intruded upon.
You will always be there in dark recesses,
closed in by grainy wood and metal hinges.
All I ever wanted: you with a top hat
full of emotions manufactured only for me.
But there you are now as I work miles away, in another cubicle,
leaning against a cold white wall on the inside
as I am elsewhere thinking of you just as constantly.
I have used you before, even pondered what you could do
for me in a night, after an afternoon of thinking, doing
what I think I may want to do if I am not getting
the hang of myself, if you and I still exist in separations.
The middle of the night, as difficult as a heart attack.
Who wants the neighbors to see the lights, hear the sirens
in the middle of the night? All that ruckus just for you and me.

Tonight you smoke in there. I can smell the odd odor.
I begin smoking too, rooms away, to feel closer.
But something always keeps the trigger locked and you
on the other side of me. Trigger, out of order, you say softly.
And you continue talking a few more moments,
telling me you hope I never need to kill a rabbit for dinner,
a raccoon for getting into things, for being too close.
Is there ever a good time for you?
Never is a good time you say.
So I sit still, rooms away, mourning something,
something like the impossibility of triggers, dumb luck.

 

 

 

From Small Murders by Carrie McGath, 2006

New Issues Poetry & Prose, Western Michigan University, Dept. of English,
1903 W. Michigan Ave., Kalamazoo, MI 49008-5331
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