my earliest sin
was to sneak a look
at the rifle my father kept
in the wardrobe beside his bed
it smouldered in the darkness
lethal angular precise
my grandfather's name rank and regiment
engraved on the barrel
I loved to hold
its dangerous potential
the metal always cold
one click of the trigger
like the smacking of lips
and my cheeks would start to burn
for the second sin
was the stash of magazines
the rifle rested on