Produced by Dennis Camire
This week’s poem is by Mike Bove of Portland and Southern Maine Community College.
Taking Aim
By Mike Bove
Out over the worn path
at the end of your road,
we walked to the sand pit
where you stopped short
and put a rifle in my hands.
I’d never held one. Never
wanted to. But we were friends
and it seemed important
to you. Your face flashed
pleasure. At me, maybe.
My nerves. The way I stared
overhead and named the trees.
You set something
in the distance on a rock:
a bottle or can, a paper box.
Then showed me how to
raise and aim. How to squeeze.
Bang and pulse is all
I remember, then you
holding up the targets
when it was done.
The sun so high, sound
gone away. The pleasure
in your face, something
I didn’t understand.
We walked back
over the sand, the gun
in your hands. The leaves
rocking in place,
shaking free of names.
Dennis Camire can be reached at dcamire@cmcc.edu
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