What Happened Here

The green of the pheasant’s tailfeather screams violently

from behind the grey chalky thistle.

And my father tells me

“We don’t hunt for sport

what the Lord has given us

we honor and respect”

I carry my toddler innocence

in the oversized neon hunting vest

back to the truck. My father has

two roosters by the neck in each hand.

Their beaks close enough to kiss.

I try my best

not to wet myself.

Once home, I show my mother

all that I have learned. Aiming an empty

squirt gun at the top of our refrigerator.

“bam bam”                                             “Woah” she whispers

pretending to hide behind an open cupboard door.

I run to my father in the garage, skinning

the birds. With a few lingering feathers

pressed down on his forearms. The headless

pheasants are resting in a pool of salt water

in the family dutch oven — a wedding gift.