Weaponry

Sam said I should write a poem
about bows and arrows.

I've only shot arrows a few times in my life.

Once,
I sunk one into my best friend's
ankle.

If intended,
it surely would have impressed.

The arrow sailed wide past the target,
skimmed the grass,
and flew beneath the wooden
partition
just as he was leaving
the camp restroom.

In actuality,
we both were
pretty well impressed.

I don't know what it is
about boys and weaponry,
but I anticipate
an anxious few years
while my
House of Testosterone
grows into wisdom.

I remember
walking from my house
all the way to Hammond
(a long walk indeed)
with a friend
who wasn't a friend
but knew the way.

Cheap throwing stars
were on the menu
at a weekend flea market
where the mall-ninjas flocked.

We spent the afternoon
sinking our purchases into trees.

And the side of my house.

And, eventually, into each other.

Because shuriken-deflection skills
are gained only through
discipline and practice.

I have a Polaroid
of my cousin and myself
standing side-by-side,
my uncle's loaded .22 rifle
pointed nonchalantly at his head.

Such things never bothered me
until I had my own boys.

Still,
there was that day
I found my uncle's switchblade
on the counter in his apartment
when I was ten:
his first instinct
was not to
snatch it from my hands in horror.

Instead, he glanced sideways
to see if any of the women
in his life were hovering,
then grinned,
and showed me how it worked.

Because switchblades are cool.

It's as simple as that.

Sure, I closed the blade
on my knuckles a time or two,
but that only taught me
the proper modicum of respect.