A TOY PISTOL

A TOY PISTOL

Toys and stuffed animals feed/ our first experiments in truth/ and desire--the dolls of our youth/ are pets, children. We call/ to our toys, and they all/ leap up, paw at our jackets/and faces. The racket/ of our own loneliness is loud. / We crave a friendly crowd. ---From “Toys Are Us” by Hannah Stephenson, The Storialist, 12-05-11

My first toy was a pistol whittled from a branch,

and from the windows of abuelo’s grand house,

I must have aimed and shot at as many cousins

who would yell for me to put on a pair of pants,

and come down to play with boys not dolls. Pistol,

I would yell back, I will shoot you, kill you all!

It had the shape of a Tom Mix shooter, a whittled

branch, really, cut and shaped by a drunk uncle

who said he would make me one if I quietly stole

the gin from father’s drawer so he could share

the ten-cent coke bottle with me when the gun

is done, and I could ride away on the banana stalk

horses with a gun to cut down all the little injuns

across the road who have been crowing all day long

for me to come down and shoot it out, their bows

ready to sling their arrows and pebble bullets

with their slingshots. Be sure you have pants on,

it will protect us from your gas-bombs, ass bombs! 

From those windows, I raised hell and rat-ta-tat;

I did not know it was only a quiet “bang” or “ping”

for a pistol the size of a pretzel. When I came down

to finally play with them, mother said my asthma

was gone, thank god I was ready to attend school,

learn to read and write, recite poems for abuelo

or sing old Spanish songs I barely understand

so he would get up from his rocking chair and

shout down the boys to leave me alone with dolls

or pistols before some stupid presidente would

consider me old enough to join the guerrillas

and like a pea-sized idiot get myself quartered

by Japanese bombs. My first toy was a pistol,

but now on my dotage not unlike my abuelo’s , I

have nothing but contempt for guns and wars

even to defend a homeland; all I want and  pray

for is be able to play with my live dolls who coo

and smile, and giggle, and before long say abuelo.

Before long, I am sure, they, too, will be pistols. 

--- Albert B. Casuga

12-06-11