The Loaded Gun (Translation No. 3)
after Emily Dickinson’s “My Life had stood a — Loaded Gun —” (754)
Amputate my freckled Bosom!
Make me bearded like a man!
— Emily Dickinson, from 1737
Ok. Look. I lived my life
spring-
loaded
how you slip into things
not yours, triggered.
For years,
I stared
down
that barrel’s black hole
cross-haired at the brink
with that orphaned thing.
I stood
alone
as targets do. Boxed
with oughts not mine, groomed
a lady, they said
I was born
to be. I
unraveled, disavowed
the template. The damn box
was the misfit, not
the boy
I found inside
myself, the gun owner
fugitive, who passed by one day.
I owned the gun
all along. I
swear
their box looked
for dovetails where walls chased
corners, where the gun
knew
to prop.
I returned to clay,
lopped off my breasts, grew
a beard, the boy of me, I
identified,
carried me
away. We strutted
roamed those banned woods,
hunted doe.
When I spoke
boy,
the mountains
called back — echoed,
lauded
a cordial
welcome. My
Vesuvian love
flowed hot lava into the valley
and glowed
good days.
Then nights,
rather than rest
in eiderdown and share the same pillow, I
wide-eyed,
guarded
my Master
as all boys were titled
back then. And yes
we had enemies
and cornered
where I stood
my assassin at the bulwark,
trigger-ready, cartridge loaded,
gun butt to shoulder,
my Master
slept
his secret head. He must out-
live my eye for an eye, my Master —
delegate of death,
my fearless
ascendant.