A handgun,
made of cardboard
and colored construction
paper, hangs loosely
in your hands-and
in another photograph
is drawn on the
walls of our old house
-and tattooed on
your arm in another.

Now it's at your
thigh, aiming at
the ground in this
one, your wife
at its side because
"God knows Ma,"
you tell me,
your words written
on its back, that
"It'll bring my
own son
into this world"
and the death of me.