Vox Populi
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Michele Battiste: 101st Note on Violence
Cast iron: iconic. Romantic
even. Well oiled. Seasoned. But far
too heavy. Fatal. Certainly. If wielded.
Determination or luck.
Stainless steel. Core: aluminum.
Enlightened: even heat distribution.
Still, too much heft. Despite mass
production. Deceptive, the brushed metal shine.
Dollar store special. Surface: tin.
Or aluminum. Abandoned:
implicated: dementia. Dents
easily from a hardy scrub. It will do
nicely. For smacking my husband’s
head. Emphasis or attention. Or defense.
Small injury. No lasting damage.
This is how I choose
a pan for the stir fry. Some minds.
The proximity (necessity, option)
of weapons. This is why. I plead (threaten).
No guns in the house.
~~~~
Copyright 2025 Michele Battiste. From the anthology What the House Knows (Terrapin, 2025) edited by Diane Lockward.
Michele Battiste is the author of several books, including Waiting for the Wreck to Burn, which won the Louise Bogan Award from Trio House Press, and The Elsewhere Oracle from Black Lawrence Press. She works for a global conservation nonprofit raising money to tackle climate change and protect biodiversity. She also teaches an occasional workshop.
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My mom walked in front of a guest at our campfire as he was about to shoot a deer. Luckily he didn’t shoot, but I cannot be around guns without thinking of that and shaking. I have a picture my son took of police holding a gun on some folks in front of his house but in effect aimed directly at him. ( they were coming from a gang funeral and the police left an infant in the car for a hour-fortunately running with a/c-no one was arrested but they took their cell phones and said they could pick them up at the police station) When I lived in Corcoran ( before the prison) a child who lived behind our house was shot by another child. It goes on and on. Who needs an AK?)
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Horrors.
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I was gifted by my Dad with a .22. I did kill two animals with that rifle. First, a raccoon, which made me heartsick, though I cut off its tail, and gifted it as a toy to our terrier Topsy, who loved to leap and dance when I said coon tail to her, and produced it from a drawer she nearly worshipped.
The second time, I had vowed to never shoot anything with it again, except an occasional target. But one day, my Dad nailed a target to a tree. Just as I was about to shoot, a fly landed on it. I aimed at the fly. What I found afterwards was a hole in the target, with two fly wings, one on each side. I got rid of the gun after having broken my vow, silly though the incident was. Nothing funny about a weapon in the house.
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Thanks for sharing this, Jim.
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An old kid’s wooden ball bat stands behind our bedroom door; my wife’s suggestion from years ago. I never would have thought of that. It is a constant reminder of possibilities. I see it every night because the bedroom door is shut to keep the cats out.
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I grew up in the Texas gun culture. For my 13th birthday I was given a .22 long rifle, then later .410 and 16 gauge shotguns. I went hunting with my grandfather, but never had the heart to shoot a deer — which disgusted him. When Eva and I got married and started our family, we agreed never to have a gun in the house because I’d known boys who had serious gun accidents when I was growing up. One boy was shot by another and was paralyzed from the neck down. After my sister shot herself, it clinched the deal: I’ve been anti-gun ever since.
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I like this poem for its succinct argument that we are all capable of violence.
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I also had a 22; I remember shooting a squirrel and feeling guilty. That was the extent of my “harvesting” as they call it. Instead of slaughtering animals now they harvest them. That makes it all better doesn’t it? No guns in my house. (My wife probably would have shoot me a long time ago!)
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