The First Time

By Chris Deal

The first time he held that gun,
he was strong, tall, powerful,
it heavy in his hand like the word.
As they looked down at the sniveling mess on the pavement,
bloody nose and broken jaw
and the distinct smell of shit,
they passed him the piece
and told him it was his responsibility.
He didn’t question the judgment,
simply looked down at the man
and held forth the gun like an offering.
Two pulls of the high-tension trigger
and the poor fellow simply lost his mind.
They clapped him on the shoulder
and said it was a job well done.
He imagined the black stain on the ground as the mark on his soul,
and realized how far he had gone,
and just how far up he would have to climb
to get back to where he had been.
The gun was still in his hand,
barrel smoking,
and as he resigned his soul to hell he knew
he would never let go of the piece.
He had once been such a good boy.

Published July 2007