The gun appears at a gathering of little niggas in the driveway. The gun appears with a pearl handle, in silk, in a lockbox inside my mother's headboard. The gun appears on the belt of a middle school liaison. The gun appears in leather atop my father's woven-wood placemat. The gun appears tucked on the waist of my big brother. The gun appears with those other niggas at the Mini Mart. The gun appears as a shotty pointed before my windshield. The gun appears in the bando on the bend of its cushion. The gun appears in chrome, stuck through the window of a Dodge, firing outside of Paradise. The gun appears as signage. The gun appears soaking the lot with a steady light. The gun appears behind the bulletproof glass at BP. The gun appears in hand at the table of a drunk. The gun appears as a misfire. The gun appears at my boy's crib—as a stick. The gun appears before the weather. The gun appears unbuckled on the officers who abound me. The gun appears in the basement, a father and his three sons fill thirty clips that hold fifteen rounds each. The gun appears in double. The gun appears on a strap while my other brother eats a sandwich. The gun appears on the counter behind where I sit. The gun appears in the mind of my Uber driver having heard me make a clink. The gun appears loaded. The gun appears as a Warhol—a print tacked on the head of a shut room. The gun appears off another hip. The gun appears in front of the tiny air in my face. The gun appears as a joke. The gun appears as my fist in a hot mouth in no time.