Is it ever only a toy?
Robert Bly in my ears
talking campfire men
who cry handling a sword.
I get pissed at my nephews,
firing Nerf guns, water guns, any
gun—cocking pathologically
until my daughters join the effort,
pinning a hapless cousin
in a bedroom corner. The squad
rains doom, & I think it’s good
for them—girls are better off
not taking shit from anyone.
Let them get hit & hit back,
learn to handle them.
So, I quit bitching about
guns, firing equitably—
no one’s watching them
decide what’s fair play, protest
the other child a coward.
