M-16A2 Assault Rifle by Hugh Martin

M-16A2 Assault Rifle

 

Some days I clean the rifle so it shines,

A cold slice of darkness in grease-stained hands.

Some days, I hate to take it outside, dust

Blowing faster, eating the morning brown.

Some days, after the warm silhouettes bow

Across the green field of the firing range,

I sit against sandbags, sweat in sunlight,

And hold that grip, the muzzle’s edge resting

Across the top of my thigh. And some days,

When I’ve cleaned it for hours, I want only

To take it home for the space of blue wall

Above the mantel, because it’d be wrong

To shoot again, to smear and smudge with whorls,

To blemish a thing that makes the night blush.