This is not a poem
about guns.
This is a poem
for my ancestors
who died with the peace of
knowing their children
could grow old
and with many children
to call their own own.
Great great great grandma
she walked her children
to school
with a gun in her skirts
because the wolves
had worried her heels
too many times before.
Those hungry wolves.
Great great great grandpa
took a chair
and a shotgun
into the woods
into the dark night.
He sat the property line
and fired shots
when the men
came to steal food,
men who stole
and killed
because a war
had taken all their bread.
Those hungry wolves.
Great great great grandpa
sat in the cold dark all night
protecting his children
because his great great
grandfather, a rifleman,
marched at Kings Mountain.
Not led by bayonets
or love of muskets
but beneath a banner
that read:
“For liberty
And for justice
For all
For all of our children
And grandchildren”
Great great great grandpa’s
great grandfather
was sheriff
with a golden star
on his chest
and a bullet
in his back.
His daughter watched it.
Him put to rest by red coats
in the yard
beside his house.
And then she watched
as we won
our independence.
And I am sure
she kept a rifle
above the door.
Because she had seen
red wolves.
This is not a poem
about guns.
This is a poem
for my ancestors
who died with the peace of
knowing their children
could grow old
and with many children
to call their own own.
Now
They cry out
from ancient graves
with tombstones
too old to read,
“Beware hungry wolves
who do not love
your children.”
A child, a cousin’s cousin,
whose friend says,
“You should just die.”
All the guns are in the safe,
but cousin’s cousin found
Grandpa’s Old Faithful.
Too old to be used, surely.
Kept polished with pride,
just out of reach.
When cousin’s cousin’s
parents came home,
they were too late
to save him
from the wolves.
Another child
one I do not know
is wrapped in a
star spangled banner
posing with a sleek
black barrel in front
of his face
for a picture for instagram
for like
after like
after like.
This is not
a well regulated militia.
The news will say
he was a lone wolf.
Beware the hungry wolves
whose compliance
has been purchased.
Wolves who treat our
Constitution as exploitable
And our children
As expendable.
Wolves who point to this child and say
the wolves
were only in his head.
Categories: Poetry
