Home Alone

The year had gone well and not.
His ex had left her pistol
With him, the one her father

Had given her years before,
When she’d first left home, the one
That had stayed in their closet,

In a box, the safety on,
Unloaded, never loaded,
Ammo kept separately,

And never been brought out.
One night near the holidays,
He finally brought it out.

It was a strange thing. Heavy.
Tool to inflict death and pain.
Her father wanted it back.

Tomorrow, he’d give it back.
Tonight, he just played with it.
Checked the empty chambers, first.

Squinted, pointing it at things,
Like a kid. Put the barrel
To his temple for the feel.

Turned it to the dark window,
Outside of which only trees.
Pulled the hammer back and tried

To fan it like in movies.
The hammer caught the soft skin
Between first finger and thumb.

After he bandaged his hand,
He out the pistol away
And returned it the next day.