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The Gun Shop
The gun seems gun-shy in this space
where deer hides hang on rustic walls
— a timid tic-toc beats, instead
of hearts in hollowed skins. The gun
a “trophy-bagger” in its rack,
a loud-mouth predator at rest —
this motherless, brotherless thug
deals lightning-crack attacks. The gun
now quiet; buckshot empty, black.
Above the stove’s firelit soul hangs
an antlered head with prideful tines
the man, with bear-paw hands, had won.
A fox in freeze-frame-trot, a stiff
with cat glass eyes, attests his prize.
Indeed, they fell like leaves in Fall,
unseen his haunt in hunter gear, his gun
a junkyard dog of steel. I say
they're beautiful in life. He says
they’re beautiful in death. Between
our words — a stand of pine — the shot
that brought the shock of ammo air
that rib-cage-ripped and broke the breath,
that hurled the crows against the sky —
the blast that felled the 10-point buck that failed to sense your goddamn gun!
Yeah... blame the buck his reckless pose
and buckled throes. You felt the king.
Behind tight trees you sat with dawn
in sniper-silhouette. The gun
felt nothing; no remorse, no joy
—it, too, hangs upon the wall.
Copyright ©
Susan Ashley
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