Reflexion

Wake up she whispers

His name

And “wake up”.

She always starts his day this way

A voice unknown and always welcome

Familiar

Who is she he wonders

Forcing his eyes open into the dusky light

The alarm clock reflects a trio of numbers

3-3-3 projected upon the ceiling

Askew to his eyes he smiles

Looks like three pairs of breasts

Chasing across the ceiling

First thoughts

The lights from the streets below

Project the mullions and sill and transom shapes of the window

Pythagorean

Triangles and trapezoids

And squares and rectangles

Across the ceiling and wall

Testing his feet

He stumbles

Once again

To begin his male

Dear…

He reflects memory, question, resignations

Reflections

The answer to one circle made

Sadly contently aware of what he is

And so it begins anew

The Shot Heard Around My World

My step-father (and I use the f-word loosely)

My step-brothers

And me

We march to the middle of the vast wheat field

Well they marched

I flowed around and around

In the belly high grain

Brushing my wing feathers

Across the tips of the yellow stocks

Leaving behind me a swirled path of my adventure

Entwined around the regimental step-line

A single shot-gun and a box of shells

Today we were going to learn to shoot like men

Like a Queens Own Cameron Highlander

My step-dad’s (and I use the d-word loosely) regiment

Dad, I say.  Did the regiment really use shotguns?

Shut-up you silly boy, it is only what we will use for training today.

He sets a bottle up on an old fence post

Counts back thirty paces

Demonstrates how to load the shells, one in each barrel

And shoots, and in an ear splitting roar

The wheat either side of the bottle takes two fatal rounds
You missed Dad.  I get a smack.

Each of my step-brothers comes forward

Loads

And shoots

And for each of the shots they are rewarded

With a trip onto their bums

I am certain somewhere a cloud or an aircraft has taken a wound

And I also wonder aloud where the lead shot has landed

What poor soul may have received a wound

From an unseen, unheard enemy afar

My turn is received with peals of derision

Dad, why the retard?  It is a waste of shot.

I point to the stay of execution the bottle has thus far received

And am rewarded with a smack to my head for being cheeky

I also have watched and learned

The shells are loaded and the rifle cocked

Rather than stand, a small child with a large heavy ungainly weapon

I drop to one knee to steady myself

I twist my right shoulder ever so slightly into the stock

And before I could be forced back to my feet I shoot

The bottle shatters, its sentence carried out, duty done

I reject the unspent second shell

And hand the weapon and unspent shell to dad

I turn and march back along the line created by the Steps

Until I come to the first intersection of my imagination

And again I flow as a bird in flight

Peaceful along the tops of the grasses

Snapping a few pieces of wheat stock

And placing them in my mouth

I am the dove of peace

Never to take a shot again

That poor poor bottle