9mm
Rick’s baby boy dug through button-ups,
flailed the polished-black stock
until it thwacked his cheekbone
and shredded his jaw to its flaps.
Jim’s two sons bad-mouthed him
over a family firepit,
cursed his dead mother,
all for locking the liquor cabinet on them,
until he shined the barrel in mosquito light
and skull-shotted them into potted plants.
Carl’s dad hid the whiskey,
told him to respect his wife,
urged him to be a sober man,
until he ripped the frost-glass
from its pantry corner,
caved the old man’s chest,
and point-blanked his jugular
with a deafening slug.
I keep mine in a triple-locked closet safe,
perfectly legal, entirely concealed, still
minted from never being used on-duty,
until I find my daughter’s door uncreaked
at 2am and unload the bronze magazine
on whoever’s lurking against
that navy-blue sheetrock.
Tyler Thier is the Honors Thesis Advisor for Pace University. He writes and teaches about a lot of grim stuff, but otherwise he’s a goofy, short, bald man who likes frogs and carnivorous plants.
The Marbled Sigh 