Bow & Arrow Season
Backyard Green Berets, my two brothers
playing Tet Offensive, the elder
taunting me into abandoning the troll doll
I'd carefully done up as Jackie Kennedy
in a Dior suit patterned from pink Kleenex
& a little spit, so I stumble into the jungle
of blackberry brambles & blighted oak
heaving dirt-clod grenades
into the far east at an imaginary enemy
as Black Jack, my beagle, cowers
behind the peonies.
Dad yells out the window-Get that nip!
Big Bother corrects-Gook!
* *
Come Christmas time and I am,
with considered attention, presented
a shotgun, Dad finding humor
in gifting a twelve gauge
to a twelve year-old.
All men in the family now, we
trek to the gravel pit, weapons slung
over our shoulders. The pond's frozen solid
so the summer swans are quartered,
but there's plenty of other game for target
practice, one brother bagging
a couple of what Dad calls pine bunnies,
the other brother shooting cardinals & martins
off the electric lines like binging
targets for stuffed toys at the county fair,
& me, too, for the first time in boyhood,
luxuriating in the intoxication
of grasping a gun with outdoorsmen.
At trigger squeeze,
the echoing crack of the firing,
the kick of the butt against my collarbone,
& the scent of bulletshot clouding
the air like hanging winter breath-
all render me dizzier than I'd ever achieved
sniffing airplane glue-& then
the unexpected yelping
of a wounded dog.
My firearm barely burns
Dad's calloused fingers
as I fling it into his hands telling him I'm done
with shooting & hunting now & forever
& had no real use for this particular present
& though I'm brimming
with what I feel to be the appropriate
amount of anguish & disgust,
somehow throughout my declamation
I maintain the mindful presence
to remain in the spirit of receiving,
& have the wherewithal to humbly request
instead, a Schwinn, please, preferably a stingray,
purple metallic with banana seat & sissybar.
Figures-Dad mumbles.
This year, the first day of bow & arrow season
& already baby brother has dropped
his quota: a nine point buck plus two doe.
He dreams out-loud of the upcoming rifle season,
& recounts with all the enthusiasm
of a Monday night color commentator
the mystical transformation that occurs
while stalking a deer, a quiver
packed full, and then the magic
of the kill when his arrow finds
the sweet spot in the chest. Sister's son,
home on holiday leave, has yet
to field dress a deer.
When my father learns
his grandson is not deployed to Baghdad,
or at the very least, an Afghani destination
but is stationed just outside Osaka-Japan?
Dad whines, repeating-Jay-pan? before
adopting a tone of parental concern
saying to my nephew-Sorry, son
now you won't get your sand ni-self-correcting,
& I believe with just the tiniest hint
of a nod to me-camel jockey-as if
that epithet rings out more politically correct.
Joe Eldridge earned his MFA in Poetry at Columbia College Chicago where he is an adjunct professor teaching in the poetry, literature & speech programs. His poems have appeared in a variety of journals including Court Green, The Gay & Lesbian Review, The Apocalypse, CPR, Moonshot, Clementine, The Literary Underground: Citizens for Decent Literature & Velvet Mafia.
Backyard Green Berets, my two brothers
playing Tet Offensive, the elder
taunting me into abandoning the troll doll
I'd carefully done up as Jackie Kennedy
in a Dior suit patterned from pink Kleenex
& a little spit, so I stumble into the jungle
of blackberry brambles & blighted oak
heaving dirt-clod grenades
into the far east at an imaginary enemy
as Black Jack, my beagle, cowers
behind the peonies.
Dad yells out the window-Get that nip!
Big Bother corrects-Gook!
* *
Come Christmas time and I am,
with considered attention, presented
a shotgun, Dad finding humor
in gifting a twelve gauge
to a twelve year-old.
All men in the family now, we
trek to the gravel pit, weapons slung
over our shoulders. The pond's frozen solid
so the summer swans are quartered,
but there's plenty of other game for target
practice, one brother bagging
a couple of what Dad calls pine bunnies,
the other brother shooting cardinals & martins
off the electric lines like binging
targets for stuffed toys at the county fair,
& me, too, for the first time in boyhood,
luxuriating in the intoxication
of grasping a gun with outdoorsmen.
At trigger squeeze,
the echoing crack of the firing,
the kick of the butt against my collarbone,
& the scent of bulletshot clouding
the air like hanging winter breath-
all render me dizzier than I'd ever achieved
sniffing airplane glue-& then
the unexpected yelping
of a wounded dog.
My firearm barely burns
Dad's calloused fingers
as I fling it into his hands telling him I'm done
with shooting & hunting now & forever
& had no real use for this particular present
& though I'm brimming
with what I feel to be the appropriate
amount of anguish & disgust,
somehow throughout my declamation
I maintain the mindful presence
to remain in the spirit of receiving,
& have the wherewithal to humbly request
instead, a Schwinn, please, preferably a stingray,
purple metallic with banana seat & sissybar.
Figures-Dad mumbles.
This year, the first day of bow & arrow season
& already baby brother has dropped
his quota: a nine point buck plus two doe.
He dreams out-loud of the upcoming rifle season,
& recounts with all the enthusiasm
of a Monday night color commentator
the mystical transformation that occurs
while stalking a deer, a quiver
packed full, and then the magic
of the kill when his arrow finds
the sweet spot in the chest. Sister's son,
home on holiday leave, has yet
to field dress a deer.
When my father learns
his grandson is not deployed to Baghdad,
or at the very least, an Afghani destination
but is stationed just outside Osaka-Japan?
Dad whines, repeating-Jay-pan? before
adopting a tone of parental concern
saying to my nephew-Sorry, son
now you won't get your sand ni-self-correcting,
& I believe with just the tiniest hint
of a nod to me-camel jockey-as if
that epithet rings out more politically correct.
Joe Eldridge earned his MFA in Poetry at Columbia College Chicago where he is an adjunct professor teaching in the poetry, literature & speech programs. His poems have appeared in a variety of journals including Court Green, The Gay & Lesbian Review, The Apocalypse, CPR, Moonshot, Clementine, The Literary Underground: Citizens for Decent Literature & Velvet Mafia.
