Growing Up

A big Jack, cutting outward toward blue,
little puffs of my bullets hurrying him.
Sage crushed underfoot, crisp & clean -

My father, a big Irishman, redfaced & watching,
he who could hit anything within range,
who brought a 150-lb buck three miles
out of the high mountains when he was 57

     - a man who counted misses as weaknesses,
          he whipped up his own rifle, stopped the Jack
          folding him in midair, glanced at me, stood
          silent

My father who never knew I shot pips from cards
candleflames out (his own eye) who would've
been shamed by a son who couldn't kill. Riding
beside him.