I never thought I’d love a man
with a room full of skulls, a deer’s ear fur
still clinging where he hasn’t finished

cleaning out the sockets. He tells me when
he killed this one, and how. Amazing
how many methods there are

for only one outcome. He lifts a gun – longer
than a cobra, blacker than burnt
shrapnel – from its glass case. This one,

he says, was my father’s. His arms strain
with beloved weight, the weapon
as heavy as me in the morning

when I want him to take me
home and he won’t. This one,
he says, pulling a petite piece

of chrome from the bottom drawer,
is for you. His first gift. My West Texas
protection. My pink handle with grooves

designed for smaller hands. If
I hold my fist just loose
enough, barely tickle the delicate

trigger, the grip fits perfectly, my Lady Smith
dangling like an afterthought
from the flimsy of my wrist. I move it

against his chest. I draw
a heart on his sternum
with its tip. Yes, he smiles, you get it.