Shoes

Jeff said,
when he was seven he crept
up to the hay bale and the thirty
ought six lying on its side. He closed his eyes,
reached out and squeezed the trigger
with his tiny little finger. The rifle
barked and leapt, of course. The slug
passed through the barn walls
where his dad was shifting feed
through the shed where his ma
was sharpening pruning shears
humming some song about Aquarius
and hammered a wound big as his fist
and twice as deep in the concrete wall
of the bunker silo. He said, “lucky —
lucky — no flesh got in the way.
My cousin, well, he lost a heel
just like that. His shoes just don’t fit
right anymore”.

Image: Jay Rembert on Unsplash

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