'THE HUNT', by John Grey

On the hunt, your father tells you,
the rifle is your only friend.
In his presence, you pretend to love it.
It’s what he wants of you,
to join his secret cult of death.

You’re hunched down in damp brush,
darkened by the woods around you.
His eyes and ears are piqued
like the creatures he is there to shoot.
You pray silently for all forest animals.

In your father’s heavy breath,
you hear a desperation to pull that trigger,
to justify this time in purgatory,
sweating on a crack of twig,
a brief brush of spotted brown.

The Maine skies
tremble with streaks of light.
A bush shakes.
Your nerves perch themselves
at the tip of your skin.
Something is moving into the frame.

”This is yours,” he whispers as
Bambi wanders unknowingly
into the path of your barrel.
The deer is not some target
but scenes you remember,
dialogue you can quote.

“Shoot!” your father cries.
For as long as you have known him,
that is what he would say.

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, North Dakota Quarterly and Lost Pilots. Latest books, ”Between Two Fires”, “Covert” and  “Memory Outside The Head” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in California Quarterly, Seventh Quarry, La Presa and Doubly Mad.