If I wrote in a short story
Or novel that when my father
Was young, about thirteen,
He and his best friend
Stole a rifle from the car trunk
Of a man who worked
For his family, then took
Paper plates from the kitchen
And went out to a field,
Intending to toss them
Into the air and shoot them . . .
That there’d been an accident
And he killed his best friend.
Sad, but believable—it happens
More often than you’d imagine
In the country.
But then I add:
My dad grew up, married,
Had four sons, gave each
Of the two oldest
Shotguns when they were
Twelve and ten
So they could all hunt pheasants.
And when I turned twelve,
He gave me a rifle—a .22.
And that same year
We went hunting deer
In a far field on our property
And my gun, that I didn’t know
Was loaded, went off
And killed my younger brother
Who was standing beside me.
Two boys, my father and I,
Barely in their teens,
Killing two others they loved
By accident—that kind
Of coincidence isn’t credible
In fiction, much less in a poem
Where you’re not allowed
To describe too much
Or explain, or ascribe motives
Because each word is precious
And the fewer you use
The better the poem.
And yet,
I’m telling you it’s true,
It really happened.
All of us
Can see the pattern here—
Two young boys kill
Someone they love
By accident.
But do you
Think God planned it?
And if so, why?
Do you think my father
Unconsciously arranged
A repetition, hoping
It would end differently?
I’m happy for you if you
Can explain it
To your satisfaction.
I can’t.
I’m only telling you
About it, because
It’s factual; it happened.
And because I want you to know
How strange life is.