When we met, he had a weapon.
A gun. Kept it polished, kept it clean.
Kept it smooth, a well-oiled machine.

When he left, he left
in a hurry. Left
the gun with me.

I didn't touch it for a long time.
Kept polishing
silver & mahogany, keeping watch
by the window, darning lace.

Then, one day, I picked it up,
the gun. Not so fearsome now,
still & dull from being put away,
clicking empty like a clucking tongue
without much to say.

I oiled it up, loaded it
with cherry pits and milk teeth,
polished it to a lethal gleam.

Now I sit by the window,
the silver growing dull,
keeping watch by the window
for his face.