The speaker begins by remembering ordinary small talk with neighbors: a sick child, the price of bread. It was the kind of friendly routine that made her feel safe, sure that people would help one another in a crisis. Then comes the turn. Early one morning, the same neighbors appear at her door, speaking softly, and she says they "knew." The poem never tells us what they knew, but the title and the gun suggest she shot them.
The poem's power lies in what it leaves unsaid. The dashes, broken sentences and unfinished thoughts ("well, who can imagine, / and who wants to believe–?") make the speaker sound shaken and unwilling to look straight at what happened. She mentions the sleeping children, so frightened and small, as if they are her reason for acting. Her final question, "What else could I have done?", sounds like a plea for understanding, but it is also uneasy. The mood is quiet, tense and chilling, and the reader is left to wonder what threat she truly faced.