Sondra Wants A Gun

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.”