In the Home Depot lighting section, I was both moth & woman,

caught in the excess lamp-glow like midnight creeping through

a splintered window screen. I learned my way around a workbench,

toolbox like a toy chest, onyx dark & opening like freshwater mussels

revealing harbored pink pearls. Cross-legged, I sat on the cool concrete

slab in the garage, sawdust piled on the floor. Face mask strings tightened

to a canary yellow, splitting sheets of plywood like a heartbeat. Lub-dub

lub-dub lub-dub. Ba-dum ba-dum ba-dum. I have held the weight

of a gun. Rested its long neck in the crook of my elbow, cradled

like an infant. Did not rock or bounce or shush it. Did not sing a rhyme,

no hush little baby, don’t say a word. Momma’s gonna buy you a mockingbird.

Did not mock the weapon in my arms, the truth of it, the quickening

understanding of the killing thing. How I, too, could create exit wounds.

I confess, wrapped around the grip, eyeline down the rib, I was angry again.