Here comes the confessional.
One of the other things that we did,
my husband and I when we took up ballroom dancing,
is that we also began target practice.
[LAUGHTER]
[INAUDIBLE] It came about, another neighbor
who was providing distraction.
Who's a retired general said, you know,
before you judge guns too harshly you should at least
know how they work and know--
you should know what they are about.
And so he offered to take us out to the range
and to show us how to shoot a gun.
And to teach us, of course, the safety [INAUDIBLE]..
I was terrified and full of, kind of,
a righteous terror, I think.
We went out and we tried to even though it with noisy
and it was horrifying.
And then I-- he handed me a gun that fit my hand.
And I suddenly realized that there
was a, kind of, an eerie, I guess you could say,
an eerie delight that can come from hitting a target true.
And having an instrument that does that.
I didn't like this feeling.
It was not part of my political program.
[LAUGHTER]
And I thought I was going to tonight
and then I thought, no, no that's not what a poet does.
[LAUGHTER]
And so this poem, which is in several parts,
again, with each with titles.
The poem is called "Meditation at Fifty Yards, Moving Target."
"Safety first.
Never point your weapon, keep your finger off the trigger.
Assume a loaded barrel, even when it isn't, especially when
you know it isn't.
Glocks are lightweight but sensitive.
The Keltec has a long haul and a kick.
Rifles have penetrating power, that is,
if the projectile doesn't lodge in its mark,
it will travel some distance before it finds shelter.
It will certainly pierce your ordinary drywall partition.
You could wound the burglar and kill your child sleeping
in the next room, all with one shot.
Open air.
Fear, of course.
Then the sudden pleasure of heft.
As if the hand had always yearned for this solemn fit,
this gravitas, and now had found its true repose.
Don't pull the trigger, squeeze it.
Squeeze between heartbeats.
Look down the sights.
Don't hold your breath.
Don't hold anything, just stop breathing.
Level the scene with your eyes.
Listen.
Soft, now, squeeze."
"Gender politics."
"Guys like noise.
Rapid fire, thunk and slide of a blunt nose silver Mossberg,
or double-handed Colts, slugging it out from the hips.
Rambo or cowboy, they'll whoop it up.
Women are fewer, more elegant.
They prefer precision.
Tin cans swing dancing in the trees, the paper bull's eye's
tidy rupture at fifty yards.
Question.
If you were being pursued, how would you prefer to go down?
Ripped through a blanket of fire or plucked by one incandescent
fingertip."
"The bullet."
"Dark, dark.
No wind.
No heaven.
I am not anything.
Not borne on air.
I bear myself.
I can slice the air.
No wind can hold me.
Let me go.
I can see, yes.
Oh, aperture.
Oh, light.
Let me off.
Go off.
Straight as my verb.
Straight my glory road.
Yes, now I can feel it.
The light I am flame, velocity.
Oh, beautiful body, I am coming.
I am yours.
Before you know it, I am home."