My poem, Colt 45, is in the current issue of Sheila-Na-Gig. Here is the poem:

Colt 45

At six,
I shed baby teeth
so regularly
I whistled
with every word.

The third week
of first grade
we had
show-and-tell
and the local ragamuffins,

captive in their Sunday best,
brought boxes and paper bags
and a pillowcase or two—
some with moving parts
that mewed or whined

or chirped.
I brought my brother’s
pistol—the one he hid
behind the tenement steps
that led to the basement.

To get it in my lunch box,
I had to squash
my PB&J and banana.
And it was heavy—
it took all my strength

to lug it across the boulevard
and up the stairs
to the classroom.
I sat behind three lucky
charms and a two-headed

nickel.
When I took the pistol out—
the room went dead
silent—a silence
I had never heard before

or since.
And then the room erupted.
Later that day,
I learned a long word:
Consequences.