THE REVOLVER
 

We find it dark and glowing, hidden
among swollen mounds of pine needles

near a weedy bank lined with cattails
and the fallen branches of a blackgum.

Together, we stand in the smothering heat
as wind thrums through the reeds.

One of the boys strikes a match
against his belt buckle. The air hisses.

The other bends to the ground,
picks the revolver from the dead leaves.

He presses it against the sky.
It flickers in the sun.

My brother's hands cup my ears
as sunlight ricochets through the trees.