by Sandra McPherson
A period instrument,
to fit a small girl’s hip,
who holds her mother up
to steal that silver bracelet.
(She says, Taxco, or else.)
Pushed in a boy’s chest, it says
get in the bushes.
Sound has that loud smoke smell.
You shoot because it’s piquant.
Red shreds die in the grass.
You’re on the side of the law
but that could matter less —
it’s the force, the right,
being boss.
You wave it,
it was mine all mine.
You’re wounded.
You think I outgrew it?
Sandra McPherson is the author of twenty poetry collections. Her honors include four Pushcart Prizes and for appearances in the Best American Poetry series. Her collection, The Year of Our Birth (Ecco, 1978) was a finalist for the National Book Awards. She taught a combined twenty-seven years at UC Davis and the Iowa Writers Workshop.