Hunting Season

Arm raised

He makes the final shot–

Buck to buck.

 

Standing on the table

Called home

A stale glass

Stares at him,

 

The light pointed down

In pools

With a buck eye

Dead center,

 

The ash from his cigarette

Catches it,

And drips to the bottom

Of liquid too red

In the orange light.

 

There is no prayer

In that buck’s death.

There is no prayer

In the hand that reaches out–

To his wife’s checkered skirt–

Across her bottom.

There is no prayer

Left in him.

 

A wedding picture

Sits

Next to the wash basin,

Clutched in her hand,

Waiting for her prayer,

“Oh god,

Just let me get

Supper on the table.

 

Her prayer

Is too small

For God or him to hear her.

Her prayer is too small

To reconcile them.

Her prayer is too small

For the reality inside her,

Which he magnifies

The million ways

She believes

Things can never change.

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