If I had
owned a gun,
if I’d had one at hand
any of the times I’ve wished for one,
if I had kept my little Browning
instead of trading it for acid,
if Dad had let me keep
the 12-gauge Ithaca,
if I had decided to take the .22
with me when I left home,
I’d not be writing this
now.
Which is a comfort
to some
but not to me, who hesitates
with a knife and can’t decide
on a pill, who is too heavy
for a rope, who floats and swims too well
to drown, who cannot abide
the idea of a long fall to hard ground.
If I had a gun
I’d surrender to its swiftness.
If I had a gun
I could make it do the work I can’t.
If I had a gun
who would stop me?
If I had a gun
there’d be no more “if,”
only
“when.”
