by M. Frieas-May
For my 12th birthday, I get guns.
Old West revolvers and a leather holster.
I practice my quick draw in the mirror.
I tell God I’m not a dirty little coward like Robert Ford.
I don’t shoot people in the back.
I’m not Benedict Arnold. Or Judas.
I won’t betray you.
Year later, draft wheel turns.
I become a soldier of Christ.
Parents nix Demetrius and Cletus as confirmation names.
I settle on James. Like Jessie. Like the Bible.
Outlaw and king. James. Jim. Jimmy,
the older brother I never had, lives next door.
He doesn’t go to church.
Never mentions the lottery, Hueys, the jungle.
He ushers for the Angels and there’s only one El Uno:
the Splendid Splinter, and Jimmy gets me his autograph.
Ted Williams, my sister sneers. Big deal.
Can Jimmy get a girl? No.
Can Jimmy buy a ‘Stang. No.
Freak. You want to be a freak?
She didn’t see Jimmy freak on the 395.
Downhill, narrow, two-lane.
She didn’t see the battered truck, the Lone Pine
yahoo cowboy tailgate, horn blaring.
Jimmy signals the cowboy, pull over.
Cowboy steps out, tall, rangy, ugly.
Jimmy bullrushes.
Cowboy down, in the gravel.
Fist to face.
Over
And over
Unloading fury.
Cowboy stays down.
Back in the car, Jimmy
adjusts the mirror.
Puts it in drive, says
Amen.
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