you took me to the green place
behind our house
where apples hung heavy, round, and lush as lust
from the branches
of twisted
blistered
trees
vinegar scented acrid air
thick with nervous fingers of bees

you were stature
worth
impeccably dressed
improbably convincing

I was small
damaged
trying to lose my mind
or at least my body
you wanted to bend me
into a hard
unblemished
abstraction of you

the pistol shone
flat as your blue eyes
when you pressed it
into my small
absent-minded hands
fit fingers into mechanisms of bolt
trigger
projectile

breathing bitter rotting apples
and blind intent
I handed the gun back
handed everything back
a small girl
who loved sparrows and moths
and stories in which the heroine
is always rescued