I. I realized that poems nowadays are measured by the lull between bullets instead of a lover’s heartbeat when I went to get my hair cut at Supercuts by a woman with a Pink Lady Handgun staring me down from her hip.
The woman looked as if she’d been attacked on her way to work by the bubblegum monster I used to draw on all my math worksheets but she had a smile on her face, something that was missing from me.
It’s SO CHIC- my husband makes me take it with me wherever I go and at first I was against it but then I got used to it and now I feel SOOOOOO safe and protected and are you okay because you look a little bit like a skydiver wearing a paper parachute who just noticed he was a foot from the ground.
II. Last year I had a vase thrown at my head in Greer, Arizona after I told a white man in white pants that he was cleaning his assault rifle as if it was a porcelain doll because he felt naked without it, not because of his OCD. I told him that keeping his bullets in a different room will never stop them from crawling under his pillow every night and the man threw his girlfriend’s vase at me.
If I wasn’t holding his gun right then, the man would have shot me and ended my life right there. One moment would have shattered into a million, but instead, there was a silence deeper than any grave.
The crickets went back to their small talk, the trees outside held back their laughter, and the scared old man cried with his head on my shoulder until morning.
III. During March for Our Lives almost a month ago I watched Donald Trump ride his motorcycle to his Palm Beach Golf Course and complain about those young, shithead protesters over a little wine and cheese when just four years ago, Trump had accused Obama of “playing golf on the job.”
IV. If saving 600 women from being killed every year because their insecure boyfriends have small dicks isn’t “part of the job,” then I think we need to change Trump’s job description from ‘President’ to ‘orange cement.’
If standing between 2,555 children and the bullet their fathers forgot was in the rifle isn’t “part of the job,” then I think someone better add “20% chance of death” to the weather forecast on the school announcements every morning.
If preventing 13,000 homicides and giving more than 35,000 Americans another day to tell their girlfriends and boyfriends, wives and husbands, sisters and brothers, and mothers and fathers that they love them isn’t “part of the job,” then I think we’re just letting those who are malnourished of power but are the least suited to hold it trade our human flesh for metal.