it’s nearly 2am
but i can’t sleep. again.
or rather, i was sleeping
until a nightmare woke me
like a warning that wasn’t heeded
and now i sit in a chair
by the bed while my wife sleeps
fitfully, bathed in the light
from my laptops’ screen.
i remember the day
at the range when our instructor
told us to imagine a thin
red line running from eye,
through the gun-sight
and down the barrel’s length
which lands squarely
on your unsuspecting target’s
chest. he repeated the need
to keep breathing in a long,
slow, even rhythm
because holding your breath
causes tiny tremors
which alters your shot.
and sitting by the bed
i remember to keep breathing
and block out the trigger
squeeze which fired
the fatal shot. he said
this part was key —
though “squeeze” seems
a strange word to use
for the act of discharging
a weapon. i’d rather hold
my wife’s waist as she sleeps,
but the smell of cordite
and familiar feel of molded
plastic has me out of bed
once again — in one
steady motion so as not
to throw off your aim.
