These women have come to the shooting
range not because they wish to protect
themselves, or take revenge on a violent
lover. They write mysteries, fictions
that almost always include guns
which they’ve never owned, never shot.
The metal is cold, but how well the grip
fits their hands. For safety, they wear 
ear and eye protection, and aim not
at human silhouettes, but bull’s eye targets.
They’re shocked at the force of recoil,
but how quickly they cease to recoil
from the thought of bullets blazing
through their guns. How soon they care
how accurate their aim. They can use
this feeling. They can enter the head
of the shooter, the heart of the slain.
One woman is already sighting 
on a plot, a killer. One thrills
to the power she wields with merely
a hand. One has decided she wants 
to buy a gun. One will never 
write a mystery again