[34] Luger 1948, Guinotte Wise

I remember the room
its criss-cross patterned wallpaper
crowded, cluttered with scarred furniture
trophies, a boy’s room, two beds
brothers, I was ten
and I remember the flash
the impossibly loud crack
and gunsmoke or residue
and the boy holding the
Luger he’d pointed at my head
his older brother’s pistol
and the hole in the
wall behind me
plaster, lath, torn
open especially
where the bullet
exited
the wall
after it
scorched the
criss-cross

All was quiet
but a ringing
in my ears.

“I didn’t know it was loaded,”
the kid said. I think his
brother beat him up
when he found out.

The bullet went next door.

After it
ZINNNGED
past my head.
I remember.

So far I’ve lived
another
seventy
years.

Just think of it. I do.