into the pit of soil. I’ve done a good job
with his shovel.
He pats my bottom. I’ve tucked the right bullets
into the pouch of my overalls. He lets me
load the revolver, closes his hands around mine
from behind. The gravel and silo and sky
run together with mewing.
Eggs over easy sputter and clap from the kitchen.
I push the loose hair from my face,
aim down. The morning air is slow
with green flies. The straps of my first bra
pinch my shoulders. I am his
good, good daughter. Now, he says,
and I don’t waste a shot.