This morning the truck
pulls away from the cities
before dawn, and the girls ungreening
in their beds. Away from Thunderbird
fortified wine and wars which have not yet
found your body. With Dad and Mama in the cab
and you and brother lying splendid
as royal corpses in the bed, wilderness
brings itself to you and there is a buck
on a hillside, a spindly shepherd boy
on the outskirts of his territory,
globe eyed and wondering. Shoot it!
Dad cries and brother’s gun is popping
like knuckles.
The buck locks his eyes
on you and will not turn his head. Antlers
barely crest the peaks of the luminous ears. If only
he would turn you could see if he was legal
but he does not turn and Mama says
you might as well shoot and you do and
the buck’s still and his eyes forget you.
The unforked antlers plead up and tears
take you by surprise. Everyone turns away
to permit them their shame. This is the last time
you will take an uncertain shot.
