My Name is Paul Kersey

I keep a photograph of my daughter
in a silver frame, on my bedside
table, next to the ceramic
painted pony I bought her the day
she was raped again, the day
that turned into the night
she died. She jumped out a warehouse
window, landed on a metal fence,
and I wonder if her too-long mute
throat made any noise at all.
I wish I could have heard her say
my name just once more.
She's made me fill these wrinkled hands
with steel, and my mind
with wishes of a different kind.

When I hear a speechless creep gasp
and watch his eyes solicit reprieve,
I know that every empty chamber
leaves room for air; every pull
of the trigger's a separate prayer.