If I had written about the gun
soon after the night when it lay in my lap
(I rocked back and forth for time uncounted,
pity now my friend who listened on the phone)
how potent, oil-scented, gleaming,
it would have shown itself—sharp point of the hammer
not yet cocked
the unsuitable curve of the trigger guard
shaped for someone else’s knuckles
but what remains, even today, is not the gun
(which returned to its original owner)
but the raw throat. The unlatched safety bar on the door.
The voice calling “fire” in an empty theater.
Beth Kanell lives in northeastern Vermont among rivers, rocks, and a lot of writers. Her poems seek comfortable seats in small well-lit places, including Lilith Magazine, The Comstock Review, Gyroscope Review, The Post-Grad Journal, Does It Have Pockets?, Anti-Heroin Chic, Ritualwell, Persimmon Tree, Northwind Treasury, and Rise Up Review. RockPaperPoem nominated one of her recent poems for a Pushcart Prize. She also writes feature articles, short stories, reviews, and novels, most recently The Bitter and the Sweet. Her collection Thresholds comes out in 2026 (Kelsay Books), followed by Portrait Studio on the Ridge (Finishing Line Press).