I climbed up
to the hunter’s perch
and thought about what
it might feel like
to kill
to track with the barrel of a rifle
a doe through the pines
to squeeze the trigger
and tear a hole
in the quiet of the forest
a hole in the soft body
of a living thing
I closed my eyes
and imagined before me
a succession of people I know
looking into the eyes of each one
and wishing them peace
all of them alive
except one — the last
my dad
when I saw him
alive in my mind
shooting hoops with me in the driveway
I began to cry
for the first time
since who knows when
quietly
my soft sobs
heard only by the forest
better a place to cry
I thought
than a place to kill
