Member-only story
The Killer
a poem
It’s not the hare but the emblem of all hares
leaping over thickets, nor the pellet but
the emblem of all piercing things pouring
through a wound.
O’ how its tongue sat in expectation for the
cooling of a skinny dip in the basin
of the rain until breaking point
of a twig.
It’s not that the boy misunderstood the
connection, he and his prey and his
present from his father who was not
there to see.
O’ he was sure to tell of how the hare
leapt like exultation and was met in
midair by a steel object that left
an agony.
It’s not either that his father was
unconcerned when his son partook
in the lesson — cruelty lodges within
each of us.
O’ how well he understood the
season, seeing it anew, how it tears
the lungs and lightness to linger
in regret.
