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Gun Raised

Dana Stamps, II

Ever since I can remember, my real dad
said that he was going to give me my first shotgun
from his personal collection
when I was old enough; he had at least twenty rifles
in his gun cabinet in his bedroom.

All I ever got was a bb gun, and a life-
time membership to the NRA. I practiced
on a shooting range that my dad set up near a stream

on his land. I shot soda cans full of holes,
almost never missed. I was a natural, said dad.

One time, a blackbird landed near where the cans
were set up, so without thinking,
I aimed, pulled the trigger, and killed the thing.

Its body, blood trickling down its wings,
made me feel ashamed; I vowed never to kill
for sport again. I was afraid

to tell my father because he was a hunter,
often brought home white-tailed deer, had their heads
with huge antlers mounted on his walls.
I hid the blackbird behind a tree.

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