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Saturday, September 14, 2013
My hand aches.
My hand
aches because
My hand is
empty.
My hand
misses the feel,
The weight,
The
finality.
My hand
misses the ominous grip,
Designed by
thoughtful engineers,
Allowing the
quick reach of a finger
Onto the
trigger,
The
steadying sister hand wrapped around the fore-grip,
My cheek
welded to the stock,
My eyes
searching
Through the
site posts
For a
target,
For center
mass.
My hand is
hungry.
Hungry to
touch again the steel
The aluminum
The plastics
The power - and
the glory.
My hand is
hungry,
Hungry for
the pull of its fingertip on the trigger that leads to the hammer that
releases the bolt that drives the pin into the primer that leads to the explosion
of powder in the chamber;
The 556
round flying, a ripping six-grove, right-handed spin, exploding from the barrel
upon a wave of fiery gas...
That leads
to the chest erupting.
That leads
to the ruptured, cavernous exit wound.
That leads
to the skull coming apart
In chunks.
My aching
hand has me
Clearing my
living room
Hunting at
bars
Sizing up
distances and windage
On the lone
figure in the distance,
Look for a
kill shot.
My hand
misses its weapon.
That weapon
pressed into it
By drill
sergeants and NCO's.
The weapon
locked to it
By training
and exercises,
By
repetition
By muscle
memory.
My hand
misses its weapon,
The one
welded into it
Every day
for a long, hot, dangerous year,
The weapon
Branded into
it,
Branded into
the flesh of my hand,
And the
grooves of memory,
For life.
For life.
Posted by: Unknown / 2:12 AM 
