I want to make a gun–
Platinum, the stock scored
With rosewood’s grain.
The bullets will leave the barrel
As aimless as the gypsy moths
Eating July in green bites.
My gun will kill every other gun,
A cannibal. No more kidneys
Pierced, urine alkali in spleen,
Bile spilled, livers unmolested.
Crows will be uninterested
In the metal carcasses.
Then I will take the last gun,
And boil it, reduced to a danger
Agreed upon in the pot.
The beads I mold will be irregular
Because I am not a smith
But I will make necklaces
And throw them to women
On Mardi Gras, without flashing.