Target.

• Author: Krysl, Marilyn
• Position: Poem - Brief Article - Poem

Target When I look at the photo of Hamed, boy whose skull keeps growing--when I look into those eyes that can't close--the iris of Hamed's eye is the center of the target at my uncle's shooting range. I was eight when he took me into that force field, bullets lined up in ranks. A man polished his gun, I thought of a duck's feathery down, then another man shoved him, just kidding, jostling, pressure in the cooker rising, and there was the downy fuzz on my arm, tiny hairs available for harm. Then my uncle raised his rifle, and his body let loose the way, when the gate lifts, the stuck bull charges. He'd hit the target's center, and he thrust the gun over his head and leapt up and whooped. I knew then that the world was dangerous, soft things were in danger. Now I'm older, here morning's pastel, the fractal branching of a tree, birds twitter and coo, and I look into Hamed's eyes and...