Public Republic

Kenneth Pobo

Photo: angelandspot

It’s not safe playing gigs
in rotgut bars in small towns.
I’m told “Be careful, Dindi.”

I’m careful, though I gladly invite
black cats to walk across my path.
A metal infant, the gun sleeps

in my purse. I’d never be
a good mother. Too much
of my own mother in me–

I’d crab at the kid, bathe her
in a bassinette of beliefs.
I fear having a gun

live with me, haven’t lived well
with anybody. She’s like
a possessive lover—

I want to throw her out,
but she stays. While I
make dinner, she births bullets.