by William Doreski
In Michigan, another school
shot up by vain disgruntlement.
The freshly dead were tossed aside
by the rush of unbridled history.
I’ve never fondled a gun
with the affection that’s its due.
I’ve never savored the death
of a twelve-point white-tail stag
or even a rabbit hopping
toward its fate in a tasty stew.
The boy who fired that pistol
wanted to kill for reasons
I probably shared at his age.
But the guns my great-uncles gave me
to make a man of me remained
unloaded, unloved in my closet.
Later I gave them to an aunt
who liked to kill small animals.
Today the wind ruffles the pines
with affection absent from life.
The cold challenges my parka
with its warped and stubborn zipper.
I should wander deep in the woods
with orange safety vest averting
bullets from careless hunters.
A hundred people shot to death
every day in our enchanted world.
I keep an empty brass cartridge
on my desk to remind me that
like Mayakovski I could shoot
myself anytime I wish.
I don’t wish. The blowing dawn
brings a pale layer of blue,
and the ruined families of the dead
face another day of absence
indifferent to the winter sun.
William Doreski lives in Peterborough, New Hampshire. He has taught at several colleges and universities. His most recent book of poetry is Mist in Their Eyes (2021). He has published three critical studies, including Robert Lowell’s Shifting Colors. His essays, poetry, fiction, and reviews have appeared in various journals.
