Cold gun metal, smooth gun wood, heavy gun weight
were stimulus and power to childish ardour
for my uncle's gift: an air gun, a toy to alter fate.
The rifle shone with gun-metal's potent blue aura.
It prescribed its purpose, the use that was rational.
A dove's plump innocence invited my aim.
The pellet struck and disabled, but was not lethal.
The bird’s wretched flap-flap evidenced pain.
A second shot only made the flutter bloodier.
I grasped the dove’s head and wrung its neck.
It lay in my hand, opening and closing its beak.
I dashed its skull against a post. Then only was it dead.
And yet, a small creature to every child's altar I would herd,
if it could staunch the desire to **** as deftly as my bird.