Confessions of a Gunworshipper

I have an arsenal:
man-made beliefs,
self-imposed standards,
neatly racked
always ready.
When an idea wakes up,
starts to blink
and stretch
to find out
what she might
become,
I take aim.

Sometimes
I simply spray bullets
at the place
where dreams grow.
This proves
I am in control.
Yes, I have the power
to destroy and I do.
I do.
My desires live in fear,
half-buried ghosts,
flailing phantom limbs,
soon to freeze
and fall.

See the banners
I have hung
in the rafters:
Certainty! Safety!
No compromise!
But when I look down
at the ground
where I stand,
once so fertile and fresh,
there is only
injury and ruin,
a suffering, a snuff film,
a killing field.

I can no longer
live this way.

I am being torn apart,
soul from body,
an astronaut
untethered
from the ship,
a stillborn baby
in a silent womb.

Help me.
Help me lay down
my arms. Find
my courage.
I am scared
to open my eyes
to what I have wrought.
My own mind,
a garden for discovery
and possibility, littered
with bones and loss.

I can feel my heels
dug in. Help me
step out of these
steel-toed boots.
Plant my feet
in the wet,
red-stained grass.
Let me feel
through the horror
for the green.

Give me the strength
to go to work
on my weapons.
To light the fire and
watch the metal move
under my own hammer.
To forge a vast pergola,
vines climbing overhead,
long tables underneath,
baskets of fruit and bread,
true shelter and
a feast of belonging.

Let us live
in an arbor
not an armory.
Let us live.


PoetryKate GodinKate Godin