Not Grace Exactly
C. Mikal Oness
In a hundred rows of corn
A quarter mile long—three of us,
Whatever doves were hiding,
Two shotguns and a .22.
The only time I ever killed
Was by accident. The only thing
I ever shot at, once, was a blackbird.
And the bullet of my .22 hissed
By the ear of my brother’s quiet friend
Who later rested his open palm behind
My neck and continued saying nothing,
But smiled, cased his double-barrel
And laid it down in the bed of his truck
Which was shining from a noon rain.