On Beatings
Big Mort used his belt for the last time on Little Mort
the day he caught Little and Jamal Bushnell shooting buckeyes
at the cows. Slipped the old leather off his sagging khakis
in one smooth movement, grabbed Little by his pale elbow,
leading him to the shed, his voice disappearing
behind the crooked door. Mort’s wife stood
from her sweeping at the steps, batted at the mayflies
bumping against the cedar planks, wiped her brow
with the back of her hand. The muted cracks of the belt
broke the silence as the herd stood cooling in the stagnant pond,
their tails swishing.
When it was over, the boy’s crumpled red face ducked
from the shed. And squinting at her son’s pale form,
she saw the man he’d grow into soon enough.
A boy who’d grow broad too fast. He could go either way,
she saw. Toward Big Mort, who was always
too hard– no chance. Or toward the wide world’s
cold lessons. All that strength stuffed into the wrong places
that beckon to men. Of overwarm taverns, cold dinners
on his own, or the church, but when it was too late.
She pulled him closer to her then, his spine momentarily softening,
before he wrung loose, disappearing into the timber.
Old Knives
One left behind by an uncle, one forgotten
by a father,
now nearly forgotten.
One you bought yourself
from the State and City pawn off 7, one taped
under the foldout table at the reunion.
But your favourite?
The Buck 110 you found tucked
in Van Horn’s jacket. Nobody saw.
(he’d been missing a week–
alone in the deer stand, flask frozen in his stiff
fingers). Tip of the shiny cold handle
sticking out of the breast pocket.
A fixed blade the length
of your index finger.
No breath against it.
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