Blunderbuss (for One-in-Four of You)

The bastard poured nails
down the barrel of his musket.
Now we're taking turns
tugging iron from our backs.

Remember the farmer
who defended his orchard
with rock salt shotshells
that stung without killing?
We didn't steal apples
from that corn-fed sadist.
His daughters would call
when they needed to scratch.

Daddy was jealous.
He used to get his
there in the hay
with gin on his breath.
No decent member
of Wilmington Parish
would believe little girls
with such faded dresses.

It went on for years
until that marked night
that we hopped the wrong fence
and heard signs of struggle.
We wish now we hadn't.
The sight was obscene.
He left her there bleeding
like it wasn't his blood.
You walked to Barstow
and left us to trample
what years of hurt silence
had built in her head.

The following week
we both met her sister.
The four of us dated
a month's worth of summers.
Then they shut down.
The damage was done.
Bruised, like sore apples
but no good for cider.
Their lovers won't be
in the fruit business, either.
The lists will grow long.
We've seen this before.

Remember the women
we both could've rescued
had sickened misfortune
not trifled instead?

Who are you kidding?
We needed our taming.
Now pass me that rifle.
I hear the police.