The Shoot

Grackles swoop down, then spread out
llike a black cape around my brother's house.
My brother is kind to animals,
shoots at nothing but one man--
a perp line-drawn on paper, plucked
from his basement arsenal.  I see that face
in fields of feverfew, pock-marked
by bullet holes.

When we meet, we never flout the rules,
avoid talk of politics, the N.R.A., or why
a teacher would become a part-time cop
in middle age.  Instead, we hike his woods,
past ancient cars pushed down a ravine
by agents unknown.  Their shapes shift
and sink, a growing mystery
in the forest bed.  As we stroll the abandoned
road, I'll note its widening rift,

the new guns.  This one's a 22,
my brother says and cocks his head,
making room for mine.
The scope snags a woodchuck
and bees clung to raspberry fuzz.
One by one, the residents of his kingdom
pass through the cross hairs unharmed
and yet I recoil when Bob takes aim.

He squeezes the trigger;
The cape explodes into shadow
that covers us both, then shreds to tatters
headed for my heart's chamber.

Maria Terrone