PHEASANT

After espresso, friendly banter, and cold

meats; after the shots taken, the near misses,

and more shots; after frenzy in thick woods,

barking pointers, and sprays of grapeshot;

after the trembling, hollering, and retrieving;

after a long table of antipasti, slow-cooked beans,

and tarts served alongside fruit—the pheasant

lay gutted or hung up for moist roasting.

Preferring to run rather than fly, timid around men,

how they startled upward with a wing-whir.

Now I eat what is caught with my own hands

like my father, and feel confused. The charm

flees. I want my life to be borrowing and

paying back. I don’t want to be a gun.