grenade crates my father puts the weaponry to sleep. cradles each bomb & each detonation. in the basement, he collects war like flowers. waters a machine gun & stroke the forehead of a missile. drinks amber beer from a thermos & reminisces about never happened. everyone is a son every so often. when i stand in doorways i am one. i belong to my father & his beloved destructions. a hole in the stairwell wall where he became a puncture. anger is syrupy. sticks shoes to the kitchen floor. attracts ants & cockroaches. once, i bought a single bullet. a secret. carried it under my tongue safe to my bedroom. sat it on the windowsill & listened to silver hum. my little child waiting for me to show him my own threats. i couldn't do it. fired him into the ceiling where he escaped & is now a hot air balloon. yet still i miss his danger when he could have inhabited a barrel. when he could have thrown himself straight ahead. i tell my father i love him more than anyone else in my family. he digs the basement wider to have more room for the weaponry. have you ever been an arsenal? i fear i will wake up as one. will see him standing over me, ready to make use of my design. when i'm not a son i shake boyhood off like a dandelion losing her face. i crouch in the grass & converse with the machinery of cicadas. listen to my father's bones as he builds another basinett for a grenade to sleep in.