Pillars

     I have huddled with the cold barrel of 
     a rifle against my cheek in the dawn,
     motionless. I was nine.
     Don’t move, my father would say.
     Imagine you are a pillar of salt.
     He bought doe permits for everyone
     that year. 

     I heard her before I saw her--the crackle 
     of dead leaves.
     It was so dark.
     I could barely make out her head
     and the gentle arch of her back 
     between the trees.
     My father stood behind me, 
     squeezed the back of my neck
     and I shot her.

     We stood over her in the dawn. 
     He patted me on the back.
     It was the dragging of her that bothered me.
     Her hooves catching on branches and bushes.
     Her limbs pulled and stretched 
     till they would snap and break free.
     Her head bumped and bounced
     along the ground as my father and uncle
     dragged her by her hind legs.

     Behind them, I carried my father’s rifle
     and my own.
     He laid each opposite the other
     across my arms to balance the weight.

     Back at the truck on the gravel road, 
     my father and uncle swung her back and forth
     to gather the momentum to heave her 
     into the bed of the Ford.
     They left me with her while they walked
     down the road to find my cousin.

     I sat on the tailgate,
     my back to her for a while.
     I remembered the cokes in the cooler
     in the front seat and 
     popped one open with a screwdriver
     like my father always does.
     I pulled my hair back into a ponytail
     and tucked it under my cap. 
     I swallowed big gulps of coke,
     one after another.
     I buttoned and unbuttoned my jacket.
     I tried to imagine pink, or lacy dresses,
     or ballet lessons. 
     I pulled clumps of lint from my pockets
     and sprinkled them on the road like snow.

     Finally, I climbed up on the hood of my uncle’s truck
     and straddled the hood ornament.
     I laid back to watch the sky opening
     from black to blue. 
     I turned face down,
     my cheek to the metal,
     listening to the engine still slowing,
     the faint ticking of the parts inside,
     the cooling,
     the small clicks 
     growing distant,
     the little girl inside,
     growing cold
     while I waited.


     Jeri Lloyd  (Click for bio.)


      


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