sailor by Lillian Haynes

did you think of me when you loaded the gun?

snuck into dad’s room, key pressed into your palm,

like a violin string straining under nimble fingertips.

the cool click of the safe; did it quiet the voice?

or make it louder?

we played cowboys and indians as children,

you, always insisting on being the sheriff,

and me, cowering in a corner, false truths my cloak.

were you fascinated with metal arms, even then?

childhood but a prologue to a miserable existence.

dad shoots with honor, you with the highest shame.

dad took an oath, you broke a promise,

to me, to charlie, perhaps to yourself,

did you turn from the door in hopes of disguise

not realizing i have spent my life identifying you from behind?

mom teased i would follow you everywhere

my big brother, who mom teased i would follow you everywhere

did i annoy you so harshly, like a pebble in your shoe,

that you sought out a place i couldn’t–i shouldn't–follow?

did you load it with practiced hands, this time, this instance,

being the one when the tethering violin string snapped?

or did you leave the door unlocked,

in hopes i would ask you to be the sheriff, one last time?

only this time you were the victim, cowering in the corner,

and i thought it was all still make-believe.