RECOIL
WINNER OF THE DEAD POET’S PRIZE
They tell you to feel ‘splendid’. Yet I do not.
Remorse instead, a vivid guilt. But still
I don my grinning mask, and follow the shadowed soles
That send me down the imperfect hill.
I thought I’d held it right - tight, the gun.
He gazes, I stare, while waxy blood seeps into the white, like bunting,
And my piñata hare twitches; she’s deemed ‘dead enough’.
My cartridge is wedged too, tight in her thigh.
Looking away, alone, my face scrunches and I struggle not to cough as
The teacher uncorks her like champagne, with a pop.
‘Between the eyes,’ he says again, ‘next time’.
The brunt bullies my chest, but I don’t let myself cry.
I wasn’t ready for this shot’s backwards punch.
And now we bounce home, and she becomes our lunch.
12