I knew how to check for bullets:
cylinder release, two fingers through
the frame: five tiny seeds, five answers
to questions my head kept asking.
While my parents were at work,
I dug dad’s revolver from his sock drawer
and carried it around the house.
I rubbed the cool barrel
on my cheeks, traced it
across my lips like the faggot I was
putting on lipstick. It was a dick
in my underwear pointing out,
or slipping into my ass. I twirled it
on my finger, my pocket a holster.
In my mother’s high heels
I was a glamorous spy,
or a Charlie’s Angel.
I aimed at mirrors—
bang, bang, myself an intruder
staring back at me.