IF HE HAD MISSED IT WOULD’VE KILLED HIM
my uncle said of the dog pa shot
dead between the eyes
it had come with a pack of his brothers
to murder the chickens in their coup
on an early pink morning
death a high whining whistle
pulling us all by the ear
the one pa shot had snarled and lowered his head
the hairs on its neck standing like spikes
while the hens lay a silent bloody mess
in the hay pa had poured out
for their comfort
when the gun fired
the other dogs ran off
and the sun went up into the sky
