First Rifle

When I was eight,
my father handed me
my first rifle and told
me to shoot what
scared me most.
I shot out both
his kneecaps
and watched him fall.
My intention was
to love, not harm.
The inside of the elbow,
the back of the knee.
I love myself into a child
and blow all the joints out.
No name for this part
but the best name.
We live in the best of
all possible worlds.
No word for this interior ligament.
The argument swings
like a hinge and
I open me and
not even blood comes out.
The inside of a limb,
chosen, like a face
turned inward or a body
turned to red steam.
The bond of childhood
to his gun—often,
the child is a truer shot
than his father—
verisimilitude passed
down through the blood.

Seth Stephanz is a queer writer from the Midwest. He grew up in Kansas and Wisconsin and is a graduate of the Iowa Writers’ Workshop. His work has appeared in RHINO, Washington Square Review, and Black Warrior Review.