Michelle Lewis

Easy Shooting

Father, didn’t we get a good
bloodletting when you died.

A mother and daughter alone in
an empty farm was something to know about.

The news passed between men
at Dewey’s Store with their
Slim Jims and change.

From inside, we watched them
jacklight deer on our

edgeless farm, acres
collapsing into the timberline

where soon I’d watch the silage rot
over some local boy’s shoulder.

They found the eyeshine, beamed it
toward the gleam, stitched those hooves
to ground for easy shooting.