I was behind the church, staking
bean vines when he sauntered up
with the gun. Fringed denim
cutoffs and Leafs-T, he lived
just down from my parish so we’d
go for groundhogs when his father
allowed it. A bright boy, chatty,
I’d laugh aloud at his stumblings
toward God: queries, crotchets as tart
and enticing as new blackberry clusters.
We’d reached the slough in Saar’s
south field, hawing at cattle who’d
stare and moan. Chilled fingers meant dusk
was close and we’d shot just the one; I’d
bent over the burrow, a deep eye socket, kicked
the collar of dirt back into its hole, straightened,
turned, and saw that he’d shouldered
and cocked the thing, stood fast with
a held wink. Had trained the barrel-hole
to a spot in my chest. I swear the sun
dimmed to crimson, a cloud-shadow like black
crepe cut the tussocks between us. His name
wouldn’t come to my lips. I just dropped the
willow switch I’d been topping buttercups with
and swallowed what spit I had left.