Dear Gun

New England Review - - Explorations - David Her­nan­dez

Again you're on tele­vi­sion, printed re­peat­edly in newsprint, on pages of over­cast sky

that crackle when turned. On mon­i­tors too, glow­ing bluely across

Amer­ica. On our minds and tongues, your word, mono­syl­labic, just three curled fin­gers.

Let me tell you: I've had it with hear­ing your name. I am tired of see­ing your L-shape de­sign,

the black sickle of your trig­ger. How dumb you look with your lit­tle round mouth

open all the time. Say some­thing in­sight­ful for once. Or is that open­ing

your nos­tril? Per­haps your navel? To be hon­est, I do not care any­more. You will never

speak for your­self. How help­less and use­less you are with­out a hu­man hand.

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