Produced by Dennis Camire

This week’s poem is by Mike Bove of Portland and Southern Maine Community College.

 

Taking Aim

By Mike Bove

 

Out over the worn path

    at the end of your road,

Advertisement

we walked to the sand pit

    where you stopped short

and put a rifle in my hands.

    I’d never held one. Never

wanted to. But we were friends

    and it seemed important

Advertisement

to you. Your face flashed

    pleasure. At me, maybe.

My nerves. The way I stared

    overhead and named the trees.

You set something

    in the distance on a rock:

Advertisement

a bottle or can, a paper box.

    Then showed me how to

raise and aim. How to squeeze.

    Bang and pulse is all

I remember, then you

    holding up the targets

Advertisement

when it was done.

    The sun so high, sound

gone away. The pleasure

    in your face, something

I didn’t understand.

    We walked back

Advertisement

over the sand, the gun

    in your hands. The leaves

rocking in place,

    shaking free of names.

 

Dennis Camire can be reached at dcamire@cmcc.edu

Comments are no longer available on this story