Home

When I was small, a gopher came to make holes in the yard.
It needed a home, chose the one Daddy had found for us,
A rental with siding of sandpaper slate. The wooden floors
Were food for termites. Hornets ripened in the garage.

Daddy looked at the holes and quietly began,
Pieced together the shotgun I had never known.
He had conjured it for this moment. A serious smell,
Oil and cold metal. The parts clicked and snapped together.

Mother and I watched from the den window.
Her hand on my shoulder. Daddy flooded the holes
With the garden hose. Raised the gun slowly
In the humming pecan and persimmon shade.

When the dark head appeared, the gun blasted
In Daddy’s hands, was broken back into pieces,
Returned to the deep closet. Don’t even touch it,
I was told. I never did.