My father’d broken both its legs
with a small pan from the kitchen
wall and left it in the backyard,
keeping our dogs behind the gate.
The wet rupture on its rear pumped
with each jagged strain of its paws
as it reached them out together,
pulling underneath it dead leaves,
pulsing forward in pulls and drags.
Do you know the impulse that moved
in me to press my Red Ryder
BB gun to its eye and squeeze
the tense trigger until the thonk
of the metal in soft flesh stopped
its pulling short?
Its hide had been too thick to pierce
with the metal pellets, but I,
even at that age, knew the eye,
in all creatures, is the weakest
and softest part of the body.
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What a dark, spooky, and scary poem. Whatever is in this poet’s mind? We need light, humorous, cheery writings this day, not something like this. I hope you can write a lighter poem, Peter.
We are in the middle of a global pandemic, multiple climate catastrophes, and a reckoning with the regular murder of Black people at the hands of the police. It’s not a light time.
Dolores,
Art is not a slave to your sensibilities. In life, there is darkness and light. Just drink it in.
Best Regards
I find it oddly hopeful in that In speaking to our darkness – there and only there – do we dare to turn and see the light that shines through us to the see in the first place
What a discomfiting poem, yet so relatable. Don’t we all do horrible things as kids, in our innocence yet lined with darkness? That last line is so powerful too, and reminds me of what Jesus said about how our eyes are entry points that determine the state of our souls and society.