Gamey
by Liz Dosta
I wasn’t a violent child. I didn’t hit my older brother unless provoked. I didn’t pull the wings from flies just to watch them turn in circles. I didn’t freeze bees to see if I could wake them from their sub-zero comas, didn’t set ants on fire using a magnifying glass to direct the sun’s heat to a microscopic spot in the grass, where they dug their tunnels. I didn’t even burn grass just to see a blade go up in smoke. But, the first time I shot a gun, I liked it. I liked the cold weight of it heavy in my small hands as I took aim. I was ten. It was summer. I was wearing a yellow t-shirt with an image of a smiling duck on it. My mother had fashioned my hair into two pigtails that curled at the ends. My jeans rose high above my belly button. My shoes were purple. My eyes were virtually closed when I took my first shot.
I missed. I aimed, and missed, again. I missed each of the seven soda cans that sat perched before me. After, my hands vibrated like little engines cooling. The soles of my feet, flat against the dirt, seemed to float up. I could smell honeysuckle in the air.
“Well,” my father said, raising his bushy eyebrows, “better luck next time,” and clicked his tongue. My father had a red face. He was a mangled man.
Back home, after target practice, it was raining ashes across our lawn, and on our driveway. A fire was raging in the valley. Homes were going up in smoke. My mother tried to sweep the ashes up, but when the bristles pressed against the ash, a streak of black would appear. My brother and I got down on our hands and knees and tried to blow the ashes away, but that just sent them into a dizzying whirl. My mother took out the hose and watered the pavement. My brother and I stomped around excitedly, until we were called in. It was dark. It was dinner-time. My cheeks were hot from playing games. That first drink of milk was heaven.
By fall, my father had killed his first deer. I watched him drag the knife across its throat as he chuckled to himself. The deer’s large black eyes glistened as if still alive. I watched them turn a little, in their sockets, as the blade tore through its rough skin. The intestines, once so close and coiled together, were spread out and limp on the floor. I felt my wrists throbbing. I began to dance around the deer. I itched and scratched at my wrists as I danced around and around the dead body, which was hog-tied to the rafters. When I pressed my thumb into the flesh around my wrist, I could feel my heart beating steadily, kicking like a small hoof against my thumb.
Read more by Liz Dosta in her upcoming book of poetry,
_Trigger and the Infinite Pull_
http://pankmagazine.com/piece/five-poems-21/
art of this 