In back of daddy’s closet, 

behind the cold and loaded 

pistol, I find a cedar box 

of snapshots—his company 

in camouflage, waving rifles,

reefer, and middle fingers 

at the photographer. At you.  

And at me. And here, 

the full-lipped redbone

he left in the world without

a goodbye. Here, a strange

boy with my father’s forehead,

same sullen eyes. Flip the photo: 

a stranger’s name and dates 

that don’t add, scrawled as if

rushed, as if a fugitive’s note

slipped quick to the future.

When my mother walks in,

I shove the box to the back

of the shelf, say nothing

of the redbone or the boy.

I hand her, instead, the pistol.

A .45, I believe. Its cold barrel

swelling in the room’s bum

light. When she angles it,

just so, I think I see my father

reflected in the steel. Wait, no—

Not my father. It’s me.