What does it matter
what I was thinking
when I aimed at a quivering branch
and braced my whole body
for the kick of that Browning .410?
All I could do was watch
the wet-velvet leg of something alive
sliding from the spattered white haunches
of the thing that lay dead on the snow.
All I could do was wait
when my father laid a hand on her belly,
unsnapped the strap
of the scabbard that hung from his belt,
then opened her pelt with a jerk:
a steaming blue hose spilling out,
a sopping pouch like a red jelly-fish,
and a leathery knot that he worked
out of the ribs in his fist-
lifting his big hands from the carcass
and smearing his cheeks till they shined.
I felt the sticky stripe burn
when he touched my forehead,
his rough fingers making
what I knew, even then, was a sign:
of manhood, of forgiveness, I thought
until the wet fawn shivered
to life at our feet, and opened its eyes-
until I saw him thumb a green shell
into his rifle, then slide
the oily bolt home.
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