that BB gun resting on my closet shelf
was nothing then
but it's something now:
the helicopters shine spotlights on a farmhouse
and the neighbors stay in their homes
while television screens blare in the background—
the mother says to turn it to channel six.
across town my nephews sit and watch TV
and sing along to whatever Dora says:
Vamanos! let's go, my boys and see the land where you were born!—
i thank God you know nothing outside of those wood-panel walls.
the guns unblaring—the photos of Jesus and Washington
hang side-by-side next to a deer head,
there's a light that hangs from the ceiling
swining back and forth—tugging on loose tiles
and morphing shadows small-to-tall;
men in black armor storm the place
while a little boy hides in his bedroom
clutching a .22.
my mother and father go out for pints
of ice cream—my mother clutches her spoon
as my father storms the carton.