The Worst

I should forgive you, who perhaps foresaw the worst that I might do, and forgave before I could act

From “To My Mother,” Wendell Berry

The pistol in the dark closet

The bullets in the drawer

Married in your hands,

Identical to mine but for size,

The taut skin of your youth

And my midlife crevasses.

Already, I have forgiven you,

Forgiven my own imagining

Of your pacing through rooms,

The cold steel of your father’s .357,

The dog watching, helpless

While you practiced right angles,

Pressing death against your temple,  

Palette, thrusted chin. I have forgiven

The worst you could do before

You did not do it, could not do it.

Even crumbling under the weight

Of morning, your hands,

Built by my blood, reached for a phone

And called two men to come.

Forgive me. The day you were born,

I had already forgiven your reluctant relief

Handing over the gun.